


Needle in a Bug

by Hermit9



Series: Sprawling Chaos [1]
Category: Shadowrun, Supernatural
Genre: AU - Shadowrun fusion, Alcohol, Benny Lafitte Lives, Bobby Singer Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Charlie Bradbury Lives, Cyberpunk, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Drug Use, Dystopia, Ellen Harvelle Lives, Hitman!Dean, M/M, Runner!Dean, Shaman!Cas, Smut, StreetDoc!Cas, Technomancer!Sam, bad things happening to kids (off camera)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: When magic surged back through the world, it fractured the fabric of society. Those who had the means rose, the Mega Corporation chief amongst them. Those who couldn’t fell in the shadows, the cracks where the forgotten refuse to die.Sam and Dean are Runners; mercenaries determined to survive in a merciless, broken society where trust is a luxury and a conscience can get you killed. And they’re good at what they do… until everything falls apart.When their newest handler is a family friend and the fallout out hits even closer to home, a line is drawn. Nothing is ever free in the Sprawl, and the high ground sells at a premium.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the amazing [Pimento.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento)  
> Art Masterpost over on her [Tumblr.](https://pimentogirl.tumblr.com/post/168827944584/enoliel-wrote-needle-in-a-bug-for-the-spn-au-big)
> 
> Beta by [FestiveFerret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret) and [ashes0909](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes0909)  
> Shadowrun beta by Featherstrike.
> 
> With thanks To #TeamGutterMind for the encouragements and the brainstorming. And the rest of the /r/fanfiction Discord for listening to me flail about this for months on end.


	2. The Party

The party was on the upper decks of a yacht, a plasteel and carbon fiber monstrosity longer and wider than some houses Dean had lived in. A live band was set up in the wheelhouse: a string quintet with a restrained music selection. The guests milled around on the two decks, carefully curated displays of wealth and influence in understated armoured suits and sparkly ballistics stoles. They gathered into small groups and broke again according to rules Dean knew nothing about, in tableaux always beautiful but with meanings that eluded him. The conversations he listened to meant so little to him they might as well not have been in English at all. He smiled and nodded and made appropriate agreeing noises nonetheless. He wasn’t _completely_ an idiot.

It made Dean think of the peacocks he’d seen on the trid: beautiful and vain, fighting against the specter of extinction. Counting the waitstaff carrying the trays of finger food and champagne flutes, as well as the catering staff in the lower decks there was easily a hundred people, which Dean thought was insane.

The harbour was beautiful; there was minimal wind and the tide had receded, so the water looked placid. It reflected and refracted the lights from the skyline, skyscrapers and Archologies in corporate colours, all blending into a splintered mosaic around the bay. It also made Dean incredibly uneasy: not only did he not want to go for a swim when this contraption inevitably sank, but it left them wide open with too many lines of sight. If he’d had a say in execution he would have been up one of those buildings. Out of the elements and with a clean escape route.

Unfortunately, discretion was part of the instruction packet. So Dean had spent an indecent amount of money on a suit that wouldn’t look amiss and Sam had gotten him in as eye candy for an ageing art mécène. His grope count was already in the low hundreds. Cuthbert Sinclair fancied himself a collector, of art, of rare weapon, of creatures. Of dangerous things. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to conclude that he was utterly delighted by this deal. He had strutted Dean around like a fancy accessory, his newest acquisition beautiful and secretly deadly. Sam had contingency plans for this part, there were stories of people using similar deals with Sinclair and never heard of again.

Dean grabbed a canapé from a tray being walked around by one of the staff. She was pretty, with dark brown hair gathered in a functional bun and large black eyes. She winked at him before walking away. Dean grinned and popped the bite-sized pastry bundle in his mouth. He stifled a moan, as the shell broke and he bit into the fatty salmon and julienned green apples. This had its perks too.

“ _Careful_ ,” said Sam, the voice in his ear amused and Dean could just picture his brother's smirk. He’d be behind him, leaning to speak against his ear in a stage whisper. “ _That is Isabella. She took you home from the last catered job. She would definitely recognize your bedroom noises_.”

“ _Shut up, Moose_ ,” said Dean silently, throat barely vibrating for the subvocal mic to pick up.

Sam chuckled but the sound was further away now. “ _Your cue is coming up. Keep thinking with your big brain ok?_ ” Dean didn’t dignify that with a response, grabbing two of the mini tacos from the next tray. They were resting on real limes: just the presentation flourish was worth more than what he spent on groceries for a whole month. He ate the tacos in two bites, trying not to drool too much. These corporate-sponsored events would spoil him, given half a chance. Dean cleaned the grease off his hands and plastered a smile on his face, crossing the deck back to his “date” and willing himself not to flinch when the sweaty hand reclaimed his lower back. It was show time.

The guests gathered towards the side of the boat, making Dean nervous as he waited for the tilt of the floor with the weight displacement. It did not come. Most of the guests were silent now, the laughter dimming as they settled in strategic positions. From the corner of his eye, he watched as two men postured to be standing closest to a third. The taller one, dark-skinned with an easy smile won the scuffle, but from the glare he received had likely earned an enemy. Dean frowned, trying to understand why the graying unassuming man was worth so much effort, to be silently standing by him, not even talking to him. Sam would know.

The cue was _supposed_ to be the fireworks, brilliant displays of burning chemicals and colours. Playing into the ephemeral theme of the evening. It was not, in any way, shape, or form, supposed to be the wet squishy splash of brain matter on Dean’s left side. The blood didn’t bother him, other than the fact that his suit was ruined, he’d seen or been covered in worse. What really pissed Dean off was that this was a double booked job. If he had had his choice of execution, this is exactly what he would have done. Use the detonation to mask the gunshot, the flashes of light to mask the muzzle flare. It was a hard shot to pull off, only a handful of people that he knew of that could do it with confidence. Only two of those working the city as far as he knew, and he was in the midst of a mass panic exodus.

“ _Moose, get me an exit route_ ,” he said sub-vocally, “ _and try to find out why Ketch is working the same god damn job as I am_.”

“ _On it_ ,” answered Sam, voice distant and robotic sounding now, sign that he was multi-tasking and spreading his attention around.

Dean started moving, grabbing Sinclair’s wrist and dragging him along. They needed to get out, they needed to do so and not get trampled and Dean still needed to find his target. All of which would be easier if the pampered idiot would stop fighting him. A woman fell, barely more than a girl and strapped unto five inches of heels, precariously balanced well before the gunshot. She was screaming now, from the sounds of her she might have been dying, but there was no blood and her ankle was likely sprained, not broken. The man that had been by her arms during the evening was making his way to land, uncaring. Dean was sure that, should there be an investigation, the man’s shoe print would match the stain on the fallen woman’s back, where he had stepped over her to make his exit.

Dean stopped and took a step out of the current of bodies, not that anyone was going anywhere, the gangplank of the boat was acting as a bottleneck. The panic was rising, in a crescendo of screams and blusters of influence. As if the others knowing just who you were might stop any further bullets from the hidden sniper. “Ok, listen. I’m getting you back to land in one piece,” said Dean, “but for that, you have got to stop grabbing my ass and actually do as you’re told.” Sinclair nodded with too much enthusiasm, eyes wide and jittery, probably high like a kite on the adrenaline on top of whatever designer chems he was partial too.

“ _Lone Star incoming. ETA a minute and change. Get out of there_.” Sam’s voice was still robotic, but there was an edge of stress to it.

The perfect scathing answer was forming on the tip of Dean’s tongue, he would swear to that fact even if he never said it out loud. He was saved from having to form the words, because for once he got a break. Lady Luck was a bitch and this was likely to come back and bite him later, but he would take it. Overlooking the scene past Sinclair, Dean saw two things. The first was that the EMTs had arrived and were setting up stations. The second was his target, blessedly near him. Sue Ann Le Grange stood out in the crowd, dressed in modest fashion, her charcoal grey dress covering as much skin as it could, from the high matronly neck to her ankle. She was grasping at the one piece of jewelry she wore, a large garish golden cross. Dean had overheard some of her conversation, she was trying to get more donations for her “church” in exchange for protection and healing and guaranteed long life. Even if she hadn’t been his target her little spiel would have made him nauseous. That was not how it worked, how any of this worked.

“Follow me,” he said to Cuthbert, moving towards her. Dean reached inside his jacket for the miniature syringe and palmed it, dislodging the cap with his nail and hoping it would get crushed or swept away with everything else. “Are you alright ma’am? You’re looking faint?” he said, eyes concerned and soft and with a gentle smile. He reached for her elbow with his hand, thanking the gods she had at least relented at half sleeves for the evening. The needle was so fine it wouldn’t register as pain, it would barely register as a colder spot against the warmth of his skin.

“Get your hands off me!” she said, jerking away from his grip. Dean let her go, dropping the empty syringe into his pocket. He watched calmly, as her eyes got wider and her breath caught in her throat. The venom was fast acting and paralytic.

“Grab her other arm,” Dean told Sinclair, draping the arm he had just been holding over his own shoulder and taking more of her weight. He didn’t wait for the other man to move, turning them towards the gangplank and yelling “Medic!”

Either some basic level of decency moved people out of the way so that they could get off the yacht, or the other patrons remembered that Doc Wagon employees were armed and legally allowed to use force as required. It didn’t matter, really. In a few moments they were on solid ground, while the emergency services started working over Sue Ann. Her lips were turning blue, and her eyes, although still open, were fast losing focus. Dean handed her over, fending off attempts to assess his own status. None of the blood was his.

“ _Squirrel, move!_ ” Dean winced at the sudden shout in the coms. He started moving away from the triage, keeping his head down, trying to be as anonymous as one can be when covered with blood splatter in the middle of downtown. He was glad the medics were looking Sinclair over and he could slip from his possessive grip. Dean kept his walking speed steady, not running, running attracted attention. He hoped the flashing lights of the police cruisers pulling up would give him some amount of camouflage.

“ _Alley, to your left._ ” If not for the prompt he wouldn’t have seen the alley, more of a gap between two towering skyscrapers to allow the rain to drain. Craning his neck, Dean could barely see the top of the building on his left and not at all for the one on his right. He hated the downtown core. He kept walking in what his internal compass felt like vaguely south, following Sam’s prompts when they came.

“ _Anyone on my tail?_ ” Dean asked.

“ _I have no way of knowing, seeing as I am purposefully keeping you in the CCTV blind spots. Would you like me to let you cross a police stream so I can check?_ ”

“ _Haha. Very funny. Any progress on the other thing?_ ”

“ _Working on it. I’d love to say you’ll be the first to know, but I’m likely going to have to yell at some other people first._ ”

“ _Yeah. Whatever. Just get me out of here, bitch._ ”

“ _You’re going to have to cross the upcoming boulevard, then take the alley to the right, jerk_.”

Dean let the coms go blank, paying attention instead to his surrounding. The downtown core was too clean, there was no vagrant population, no dumpster divers, no visible or accessible dumpsters for that matter. Everything was sanitized, kept up to the standards of the corporate landlords. Anything that didn’t fit in the manicured image they wanted to sell had long been pushed out and away. City block by city block the glamour slowly faded, buildings lost their shine, some windows bearing “for rent” signs and empty storefronts. Dean kept walking. There had been only the echoes of his steps earlier, but now other signs of life started appearing, from the rustling of rats to the covert shaking of spray paint cans for graffiti and tags. The line wasn’t as subtle. Everyone knew where the Lone Star contract ended from year to year, and the street delimiting the no-man’s land was always strikingly obvious. It was the boarded up windows, the rusted car husks on one side of the street. Like the city was always ready to build barricades around the Barrens. Or if the Barrens were ready to defend against further repression.

Beyond the no man’s land was the hopeful streets, the apartments of those who thought they were just down on their luck and it would be temporary, just a set-back. Of those who thought they could escape the streets and claw their way up into the light. The parking lot was three blocks in, in what Dean liked to call the “reality settling in” zone. Just deep enough that you weren’t pretending anymore, this was your life, your place in the Sprawl. The lot was paved, though the pavement was cracked and worn. The worst of the potholes had been filled with gravels and broken-up concrete. There was a wire-mesh fence erected around it, not as a deterrent, just a way to mark that this zone was under protection. The deterrent was the kid standing by the gate, uzi on a sling resting against his hip.

Dean whistled as he stepped out and across, getting Javier’s attention. The kid smiled at him, both friendly and unsettling, bleeding gums staining his teeth red.

“I was going to ask how it went, but —” he gestured at Dean’s stained clothes and the flaking drying blood on his face “— it looks like someone had a fun evening.”

“Yeah, that someone wasn’t me.” He clasped Javier’s at the forearm, shaking in friendly greeting. “How was my girl?”

“Bit fussy. Requested two glasses of water and a story before going to bed.” Javier winked, an exaggerated gesture that made the intricate tattoed line of his face wrinkle into confusing shapes. “Relax, man. Nobody touched your baby.”

Dean chuckled and walked past him into the parking lot, making a beeline for his car. It was a hand me down and a collector’s item. It was out of place and alien in the Sprawl but he wouldn’t give her up for all the money in the world. He circled the car with a critical eye, not that Javier would lie to him, but because the ritual grounded him. He popped the trunk and looked back at Javier. “Do you mind if I get changed?”

Javier laughed again, a full-throated laugh. “Nah, go ahead man. The barrel at the end of the lot will be burning through for two days if you need to dispose of anything” He winked at Dean before whistling, gesturing at someone behind them. Two younger kids, their tattoos incomplete and barely creeping out of their collars, circled around the other cars to join him. “We’ll give you some privacy.”

The youngest of the kids, a little girl barely more than twelve looked up at him in awe before running off as she was told. Dean shook his head. If the Djinns were taking her in, her home life situation had to be worse than what the gang could offer. He stripped from his suit jacket, making a face at the gross wet sounds the fabric made. The button down was also ruined, as were the shoes. Dean tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was standing in his boxers and socks in an open parking lot under the protection of a seventeen-year-old kid and his pintsized side-kicks. He got dressed in broken in jeans and a t-shirt and knelt to lace up the boots.

“ _What’s your ETA?_ ” Sam’s voice was focused again, now that he wasn’t overseeing the camera feeds.

“ _Give me five to finish here and get home. Why?_ ”

“ _I’ll patch Ketch in, in two._ ” Sam sounded pissed. Dean didn’t blame him, the guy was a cold-blooded psycho, gave runners a bad name in most circles. That he was considered a highly professional asset in others was one of the mysteries of the world.

Dean grabbed a handful of meal replacement bars from his stash before closing the trunk. He shoved them in the pocket of his coat, settling the slightly creaky leather around his shoulders. It was good to feel like himself again. Dean used the least soaked through shirt to wrap the rest of the clothes into a bundle and dropped them into the oil drum fire. The kids hadn’t been kidding, the fire had a decent amount of embers and ashes, probably had already been going for a few days. Dean was careful not to dislodge anything, he didn’t want to know what they were so thoroughly burning. His clothes went up in seconds, the polyfiber based fabric melting and releasing noxious black smoke. The spent syringe melted and twisted along with it. There would be nothing left in the morning.

He walked back towards Javier and the younger kids once he was satisfied. “I’m heading out man, mind opening the gate?”

One of the kids ran to crank the bars open. Dean smiled and shoved the meal bars at Javier. “All I have on me. I’ll try to see if I can get you guys some decent vitamins soon.”

“You already paid. This is unnecessary.” Javier tried to push back the bar, but Dean caught the sudden hungry spark in the little girl’s eye. She didn’t come any closer. All of the kids were weary, there was no such thing as a free lunch in the Sprawl.

“It’s a tip for the lullaby. Now take it and don’t make a scene.” Dean smiled, making himself unthreatening, but refusing to take anything back. He walked away and got into the Impala, grinning like a kid himself at the wide stares the rumble of the motor earned him. Carefully, mindful of the holes and loose rocks, he pulled away.

He had a blast of static as a warning before the polished, self-assured and full-of-himself Brit was purring in his ear. “ _I’m sorry, did I interrupt your date night?_ ”

“ _Stow the crap, Ketch_.”

“ _Ah, but Squirrel. I changed the angle of my shot to avoid grazing your sugar daddy. I thought you’d appreciate the gesture._ ”

“ _I want to know why you took the shot in the first place. It’s poor form to double tag on someone else’s run._ ”

Ketch chuckled, low, mirthless. “ _I am a hunting dog, Squirrel. I don’t pull the strings, and frankly, the big picture bores me. I had a job and I did it. You had yours. Neither of us is dead. We’re done, and we go home. Isn’t that the core of who we are_?”

Dean cursed under his breath, tightening his grip on the wheel. He didn’t have anything to answer to that. It was true, even if it was biased. Runners were disposable assets, anonymous and existing on the margins of the system, crawling in its shadows.


	3. Home Ground

The Sprawl had grown organically, like a tumour or an infection spreading over the land. Some enclaves still clung to the old town names, like Bellevue, or Everett in the north with the farmland. Or Fort Lewis, clustering around the military base as if it was a round talisman that would keep the dangers at bay. White knuckling to the idea of differentiation but knowing it had been a war long lost. The boundaries had blurred, or maybe eroded was the better term.

The only strong divides that remained were the contracted private security sector. Lone Star first and foremost, having claimed the mantle of first responder, steamrolling over the quilted municipal forces. Knight Errant patrolling the gated communities and the luxury compounds. Private corporate forces on their extra-territorial claims, like miniature armies on the shortest of leashes. Everywhere else, the parcels left behind, the scraps, the swaths of land and humanity too poor to warrant protection were the Barrens.

Not that the Barrens were lawless. The law was just smaller, more immediate and visceral. It was formed in turf and corners, with knuckles and fights and example. The SINless of the Barrens didn’t exist according to city census. There was no gleaming corporate office offering job security, just hunger and spite, and a stubborn refusal to roll over and die.

Dean drove carefully, the bass of his music a low comfortable rumble. He didn’t expect any trouble from the gang members on the corners. The enforcers would know that the absence of tags, stickers or other identification sign was an identity of its own. It was the civilians he was watching out for, high or just on the wrong side of desperate.

Still, he huffed out a relieved breath when he turned the corner into their neighbourhood, in the south-east corner of what had once been Puyallup. Bobby’s house sat by the fence of the junkyard, a multi-acre maze of rusted cars and other, stranger, things. One of the local kids had a modestly successful business of renting steel cables to the reckless ones who wanted to go diving for discarded treasure. He’d only lost three people in the last month, the cables snapping with a high pitch note. Only idiots or overconfident fools walked in without the tether. Dean knew that a family of ghouls lived around the strange wooden ruins and that the lanes shifted sometimes, tons of metal displaced in silence. He wasn’t sure which category he belonged in.

Dean parked in the driveway near the front door, covering the Impala with a tarp that had once been tan. There were forecasts of rain and he didn’t want the acidic ashes laden precipitation to mar her paint. He couldn’t wait to be done with the retrofitting on Bobby’s truck so he could reclaim the covered garage.

He worked his way through the series of locks on the door, old-school mechanical locks that could be picked but not hacked. The two brand new maglocks clicked open before he even touched them. Dean pushed the door open, wincing at the loud screech of the hinges.

“Filled the tub up before the water got cut.” Bobby’s voice was gruff, coming from the library, that also acted as his office and bedroom. Dean could hear the low electronic voices of newscasts overlapping around the room. “Go get cleaned up, Dean.”

Bobby’s pristine, enamel, Japanese soaking tub always looked strangely out of place in the otherwise simple and worn bathroom. It was Dean’s favourite thing after a run. The water was still a few degrees above lukewarm, making Dean frown. Sam had better have helped Bobby carry the boiling water from the kitchen. He didn’t like the idea of Bobby doing it alone.

He scrubbed the bath clean, or as close as he could get it, as the water drained. A clean set of clothes waited for him by the sink and, while he appreciated the comfort of the sweatpants and glorious clean fuzzy socks, he hated the gesture. Dean didn’t want to be pampered, he didn’t deserve it. Not for what his job was.

He padded out and back towards Bobby, pausing in the doorway to take everything in. The organized chaos of how Bobby worked was always something akin to art to behold. Bobby was currently watching two different trid “breaking news” broadcasts, the holographic images overlapping where the two units met in the cramped space. Three other projected 2d screens were scrolling between the other channels, the last was keeping a dizzying scroll on matrix chatter.

“Did they get my good profile?” asked Dean, running a hand through his hair. It was getting long, he needed a haircut. Any longer people would start mistaking him for his brother.

“Couple of gossip rags got a few pictures of you. According to most captions, you’re a ‘paid companion’ so, errr, it’s not too bad. Sam’s dealing with it.”

Dean groaned. There went another chunk of profit from the run. He crossed over to the kitchen, opening the cupboards and taking stocks of what they had. They needed to restock pretty much everything. Dean leaned over the counter, stretching his shoulders and closed his eyes as he ran the numbers. Once he took care of the water, electricity and protection bills, bought the part he needed for Bobby’s truck and paid for whatever Sam was doing to erase his photograph from the tabloïds... He would have enough for a supply run. Just about. If he kept things simple and worked in a lot of soybase into their meals. The chicken flavour wasn’t all that bad.

He grabbed a pot and started assembling dinner. It was closer to dawn, but breakfast was a luxury they couldn’t afford. He tossed rice with some heated oil, added carefully measured water from a bottle, the last handful of dehydrated vegetable and the beans he’d put to soak the day before. He dug around the cupboards again, finding the last of the canned tomatoes and, reverently, added it to the pot and lowered the heat as he put the lid on.

“You don’t have to do that, son,” Bobby said from behind him, not quite in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I do,” answered Dean. He turned towards Bobby. “This’ll need about forty minutes. I’m gonna go get Sammy.”

The stairs creaked, some of the threads should have been replaced a year or two ago. Dean didn’t mind. The sound acted as an extra layer of warning; he suspected Bobby felt the same. Sam’s room smelled of sweat. Dean wrinkled his nose and crossed the room to unclasp the window, letting some of the night air in. The smell wasn’t really any improvement, but it was cooler. The room was spartan, single twin bed against the wall with a lumpy mattress. And Sammy.

“ _Just a minute, I’m…_ ”

“Going to tell me out loud, that’s what you’re going to do,” Dean interrupted. He knelt by Sam, running his fingers through his brother’s hair and trying not to flinch at the slightly raised surgical scars along his skull. Dean hadn’t approved when Sam had gotten the idea in his head to get bioware implants to help him do _whatever_ he did out in the Matrix. Sam had argued it was no different from Dean getting his comlink and sub-vocal microphone implanted (Dean had shut his mouth about the other things he’d had the docs do), while Dean had countered that getting some bonesaw to mess around with your brain was totally different. Sam, being the stubborn, pig-headed ass that he was had gotten the surgery done anyways. They hadn’t spoken for a month as Sam had recovered. Seeing him bandaged up and intubated has felt too much like losing his baby brother and he wasn’t keen on a repeat performance.

“ _I mean it Dean, there’s something not right in the footage from tonight._ ”

“It’ll be there tomorrow. You need to eat and get some water in you. I know you hate this part, but I need you to wake up now Sam.” Dean smirked. “Don’t make me just pull the plug.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Sam took a deep shuddering breath, which only highlighted how shallowly he had been breathing before. The exhale was a wordless wail of pain.

“Ok, ok, easy. I got you, I got you.” Dean carefully transferred Sam’s weight onto himself, hissing in sympathy when the change in position allowed blood flow to normalize. Sam always ended up curled in some kind of fetal position when he was jacked-in for a long period of time. He had bad cramps and a worse case of pins-and-needles when he surfaced. When the first spasms passed Dean reached for the water bottle by the bed, untouched from the morning. He carefully poured small amounts for Sam to drink, making sure he wouldn’t choke.

“That’s it, a couple more sips and I’ll help you move, ok? And we’ll get you some painkillers downstairs if you need them.” Dean kept talking in a low steady voice, grounding Sam back in the confine of his body and the hard limits of meat-space. With careful, practiced movement he started on the exercise routine they had devised over the years. Bending the fingers and uncurling them, then rotating the wrists and bending the elbows. Sam cried out in pain once or twice when Dean moved to stiffer joints, repeating the pattern with toes, ankles and knees. By the time Dean was done with the second leg, Sam’s eyes were open and more focused and he slowly reached to remove the data jacks from the dataport set behind his ear. Dean hated the sight of the metal spikes, imagining them in his own cortex freaked him out a bit.

“More water?” asked Dean, gently rubbing at Sam’s upper back and shoulder to loosen the muscles there.

“Yeah. If there’s some left.”

Dean handed him the almost full bottle. “Food is on the stove and should be about ready. Think you can deal with the stairs?”

“I’m fine De.” He stretched to prove it, and stood up, keeping the wobbling to a minimum. “You know dump shock can kill someone? You should stop threatening to do that.”

Dean nodded. He stayed close as Sam shuffled out of the room and down to the kitchen, leaning on the walls more than really necessary. He’d take Sam’s bitch face over having him snap his neck in the stairs.

They sat around the table with Bobby, Sam digging into his plate with appetite now that his body was able to signal hunger again. Bobby raised an eye at Dean’s bowl, carefully picked from the mismatched flatware to appear full and yet hold maybe half of what he had doled up to the others. He didn’t mention it, for which Dean was thankful. No one went for seconds, though they were still unsatisfied. The leftovers would be tomorrow's meal.

Later, while Dean was scrubbing at the pot and putting the food away, Sam went for a run. Light was just starting to spill over the jagged edges of the junkyard; the sky was charged with an array of greys. It crackled like the colour of a TV tuned to a dead channel.

“You wanna get some sleep, or you want your messages first?”

“Hit me now,” said Dean, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer. He had tossed the cap aside and taken the first swallow before checking the label. Soy beer. He grimaced and sat down with it. There was nothing else anyways.

Bobby leaned his forearms on the table, meeting Dean's eye. “Got a call from Argent. Says his offer still stands to join his crew.”

“Pass,” Dean said, draining the rest of his beer.

“It’s good money, boy, stable pay. One of the best merc groups around.”

“I said no, Bobby.” Silence stretched between them. Dean picked at the label of his beer. “I’m not… I am not naive or innocent. I know the money’s good. But I like to think there's a difference between what I do —” Dean paused, pushing back the image of the woman tonight with her blue lips and panicked eyes. “— And walking into a village that happens to be in a war zone and walking out on the other side as the only thing left alive.”

“That wasn’t his men.”

“Wasn’t it?” Dean looked up to meet Bobby’s eye. “No merc jobs.” Dean’s tone was his ‘final word’ big brother voice.

Bobby nodded, it wasn’t a hill worth dying on. “The other was Ellen. She asked to meet with you, as soon as you could.”

“Social call?”

“Job offer. Didn’t give me the details, but she knows your rates.”

Dean tossed the empty bottle unto the growing pile in the corner.

“Call Ellen. I’ll go see her tonight.”

 

 

The White Phoenix looked like the strange results of portal experiments, or something beamed in place via alien abductions. It was utterly out of place on the north side of the junkyard, deeply embedded into the poorest sector of the Barrens. The first floor had floor to ceiling ballistic glass, polarized in a way that let light spill out but masked and protected the interior. The third floor windows were small, tall and narrow, made for defence. The second floor had no windows at all. There were wide stretches of pavement on either side, as if the dirty cramped townhouses shied away from the strange invader.

The Phoenix brought in good money and the Guardians took perimeter security to heart. Dean nodded to the two red-coated gangers as they approached. The tallest one gave them a slightly cocky salute, the other ignored them, scanning the roads on either side. There was a line-up stretching along the side of the building. It was surprisingly civilized as far as line-ups went, an eclectic mix of local working men, slick underworld bruisers, and the odd group of overeager teenagers.

Dean ignored the queue, walking up to the bouncer directly. He earned more than a few dirty looks, but he couldn't care less. Gadreel was leaning against the wall by the door, using his height and bulk as passive intimidation. He had the hood of his sweater covering his head, layered under his security staff jacket. It looked too warm for the weather, but Dean admitted it was probably better than being covered in the thin gray ashes that fell over Puyallup like dirty snow. Gadreel’s eyes were sharp but not vicious. He looked the pacifist type, the one who’d try to de-escalate a situation right until the moment where he would snap and turn you into a human pretzel. Dean had seen it; human limbs aren't supposed to bend at those angles. Gadreel hadn’t even broken a sweat. There were very few fights outside the White Phoenix.

“Hey, Zeke,” said Dean, earning a rare smile.

“Busy evening?” asked Sam, pulling ahead of Dean to catch the gossip. Even muffled under the surgical mask he sounded friendly. Dean was glad the bad blood between the two had been resolved. Especially since he had been the most to blame for the feud.

“Not really.” He pointed at the lineup with his chin, arms still crossed. “This lot should be in within an hour or so as the patrons trickle out.” He turned his attention back to Sam, cocking his head to the side. “Are you here for leisure, or do you have an appointment?”

Dean lifted a fist to his chest and uncurled two fingers, using his body to block the line of sight from the onlookers. Gadreel nodded. He waved towards the door, which opened with a pneumatic hiss.

A few voices rose from behind them, booing and jeering. “Why do those clowns get to skip the line. We’ve been waiting for hours!” Dean turned to look back, easily finding the source of the complaints. Four young men were huddling together, the cut of their clothes and the casual flair of their accessories marking them as corporate kids, roughing it for a night of fun in the dangerous slum. An older man was trying to shut them up. From the slicked back hair and tattooed hands, he was Russian mafia. He looked about a hair trigger away from bashing one of his charges’ heads in. Not that the Vory were kind and nurturing in the best of cases, but the barely contained laughter from the two Yakusa enforcers further up the line was making things worse.

“Go on inside,” said Gadreel as he unfolded from his post. “I’ll take care of the tourists.”

Sam laughed, pushing Dean by the shoulder towards the door. Dean threw him a disappointed look. He had wanted to watch the show. Sam rolled his eyes, the full effect of the bitch face hindered by the mask. “I’ll ask Frank for the recordings, if you want.” Dean smiled and gave him a thumbs up; that suited him just fine.

The door closed behind them, sealing them into an airlock, where streams of pressurized air blew the ash away from their hair and clothes. The process took less than 30 seconds, but it always left Dean slightly on edge, as if there was a subtle insult he was missing, beyond the obvious practicalities of environmental hygiene. Sam unhooked the mask from his ears and carefully stored it in the inner pocket of his coat.

The interior of the Phoenix was somehow as unsettling as the exterior. The floors were polished concrete, covered with a thick coat of glistening epoxy. Dean knew it was so that the surface would be stain proof and easily cleaned. The bar and most of the furniture were rough and industrial looking, built of barely polished steel. The light was diffused, however, with hanging, cream-coloured, paper lampshades.

A waitress passed in front of them, winking at Dean as she manoeuvred the platter of food and drink. He stared at her with a longing that was only partially to blame on the short red and black dress she was wearing. He followed Sam based purely on instinct, still trying to glimpse at the plates on the tables, trying to see what the menu today was. His stomach felt hollow and folding in on itself.

“Now, now, the ones who are paid to be ogled are the ones with the white and red uniform.” Crowley’s voice was low as he seemed to materialize by Dean’s side. “Though a little bird told me you are surprisingly affordable yourself.” His smirk was a weapon, making Dean wonder how many punches Crowley avoided in a day by virtue of being the boss and owner.

“We need to tie a bell to you, Crowley, I swear to god.”

“Ah, but where would be the fun in that?” He grabbed Dean’s elbow as they reached the stairs. “I won't keep you from your meeting. I just wanted to clarify that Muse’s fee includes laundry for the sheets, not for the props.”

Dean pulled his arm out of the grip, scowling. He hoped no one would notice or comment on the blush making his cheeks burn. “Fine. Add it to my tab.”

“Splendid! Always a pleasure doing business with you, Squirrel.” Crowley winked and sauntered away.

Sam looked at them with wide eyes and comically high eyebrows. “Props?” he said, as Dean barreled past him and up the stairs.

“Shut up, Sam.”

“Hey, I am just asking. You’re the one who’s suddenly acting like a freckled, blushing virgin.”

“You’re… freckled.” Dean knew the comeback was lame but he let it hang in the space between them. Sam didn’t push further but there was a ghost of a smile that promised torment later.

The stairs were steel mesh and coiled up to the second floor while occupying the smallest possible footprint. They led to a door, plain except for the sliding panel, like one of the period dramas Bobby played while he was working. Dean knocked on the door, lightly with the back of his fingers, while Sam waved at the meant-to-be-hidden micro camera above them. The panel opened, though from their angle there was only darkness on that side of the door. It slid shut after a few seconds and the sound of the heavy locks opening was heard. The door opened, letting both Sam and Dean get in and closing after them, a repeat of the ground floor but lacking in the high tech display.

The second floor of the Phoenix was dark and soft-edged where the first had been brightly lit and unapologetic. The pendant lamps hung low over tables, with hammered steel shades that confined the illumination to a small circle. If patrons sat leaning back on the chairs only their hands would be visible, draping their faces in shadows. There were only three booths, and the regulars knew better than try to sit at them uninvited.

“She’s waiting at table twelve.” Anna’s voice was soft, barely louder than the metallic clank of the door as she closed it. Even in the almost darkness, her hair had a soft red glow. She smiled at them, leaning to get her customary kisses on the cheek.

“Thanks, Red,” Dean said, gently squeezing her shoulder before stepping away. He did not need any more trouble with Gadreel, not when they were finally all back in each other’s good graces.

A loud burst of laughter from the bar attracted his attention. A group of four was celebrating, knocking back shots and trying to get one of theirs drunk. They were high on a successful run, on adrenaline, life, and well-padded bank accounts. Dean frowned; he should be like them, had been once.

Ellen was sitting at a table, two empty chairs across from her and rock glasses stacked on the table. She was a smart woman, she knew that where Dean went so would Sam. It only made Dean hurt on occasion now, that the reverse could not be true. Try as he might he was worse than dead weight in the bright colours of the Matrix. Ellen’s hair was tied back in a messy bun, her face lined and marked by stress and sleep deprivation.

“I’m sorry for the short delay,” said Ellen as they approached. “I know it isn't ideal.”

Dean didn’t dignify that with an answer. Ellen might be out, but she knew the life. Only the desperate and the fools took back to back runs. Those with an inch of common sense would let at least two weeks float by. Enough for their file to get buried on a cop’s desk and for someone else to do something flashy, pushing your face back into the mild anonymity of hundreds more.

Sam crossed to her side, engulfing her into one of his sasquatch hugs, long arms and puppy dog charm all over.

“Don’t worry about it. We owe you that much.”

Dean sat down as a way to disguise his unease. It had been a long time since John’s death, yet they were still paying his blood boons. Sometimes Dean wondered how they could ever wipe the slate clean. A waitress dropped a bottle of whiskey on the table, the good kind, before walking back out of hearing range. Dean broke the seal and poured three glasses as Sam and Ellen settled in turn.

She rolled a credstick across the table, unlabeled and matte black. “Have Sam look at it, lick it, whatever you want.”

Sam grabbed the credstick and slotted it into his comlink, eyes widening at the information only he saw. “That’s...”

“Your retainer,” Ellen interrupted. “With the same amount upon completion.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Twice, if she's alive.”

“ _Squirrel… this is your whole usual fee plus tip_.” Sam’s voice on the coms was wary.

Dean’s eye twitched. No one paid that much to _not_ kill a mark. He grabbed his glass, absently running his fingers around the rim before swallowing half the content. He closed his eyes to savor the anesthetic buzz on his tongue and down his throat, with the spiced woody taste chasing the edge of the alcohol. “What’s the job?” he asked when he reopened his eyes, wishing she would lean forward into the light so he could get a better read on her face.

“Search and rescue.”

“Not exactly our specialty,” Sam cut in, trying to be diplomatic. Dean knew that what he meant to say is that they - he -hadn’t ventured on the non-lethal side of things in a long time. “Why call us in specifically? You could buy the best trackers in the city for this much, Ellen.”

“Yeah, I know, Sam. But I’m out of the life and I don’t know any of the big dogs like I know you boys. I prefer to have someone who’ll drive this home, over someone just looking for a paycheck.”

“Who are we looking for?”

Ellen dropped an old-school paper folder on the table, with printed photographs. The first two were teenagers bordering on the kid side of things, with hard eyes and distrust on their faces. Street kids, Dean would bet.

The third image was of an older girl, in her early twenties, thick blond hair tied in a ponytail, brown eyes sparkling and smiling wide. She was dressed in a practical black tank top and held a rifle, with the ease of someone who knew how to use it well. Dean dropped the folder on the table. He remembered that day. He’d been the one giving the shooting lessons.

“Bring my daughter home,” Ellen said, over the suddenly deafening silence. Then, her voice breaking, “Please.”


	4. Legwork

“ _I keep running into dead ends here._ ” Sam sounded annoyed and cranky. Dean was right there with him. “ _There’s nothing, no facial recognition ping, no credstick use, nothing on any of her fake SINs. Anything on your end?_ ”

Dean sighed and leaned his head on baby’s steering wheel, closing his eyes, “ _No. The two other kids were definitely her friends. But I’ve been driving up and down, trying all the ‘up and coming places’ I could think of and no one has seen them._ ” He turned the key in the ignition, patting the dashboard as his girl woke up with a growl. “ _I’m just spinning my wheels here. Going to go do that supply run. Do you think anyone from the Armadillo might be able to…_ ”

“ _If I thought throwing money at the problem and getting more deckers on this would help, I would have done it. The data isn’t there,”_ Sam snapped _. “I could have a small army helping me sift through it, there’d still be nothing to find_.” His voice hardened, and Dean could picture the bitch face he’d be throwing his way, “ _I’m logging off. See you when you get here_.”

The silence on the coms was strange: it felt like being lonely, even if Dean had been alone in the car all day. He was used to the slight staticky presence of Sam, even when he wasn’t talking. He could pretend his brother was still clutching his sleeve and hiding behind his bangs. Sam hadn’t needed him as a shield in a long time, but Dean missed it. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, or to his face.

When Dean got home, Sam was waiting for him. He’d showered and he was moving with an ease that meant he’d truly been offline for a few hours. It didn’t mean Sam helped bring in the groceries and the supplies, he just dug through the bags Dean was arranging on the kitchen table until he found the disgusting green smoothie bottles. He cracked one open and drank half of it in one gulp.

“You know, I’m still not convinced those aren’t made of people.”

“Shut up, Dean. Soylent is a perfectly good meal replacement. Their cheeseburger flavour is a horror show, but why the hell did you even try the cheeseburger flavoured smoothie?”

Dean eyed the lumpy, slightly desaturated green liquid in the bottle with distrust. “Because I wanted a meal. I don’t know how you deal with the unflavored version.”

Sam shrugged and started poking at the bags, trying to see if there were any more tasty treats to snatch. His face split into a wide grin as he spotted the beef jerky, but Dean was faster and moved it safely into a cupboard. “Hey!” said Sam, with a hint of a whine in his voice.

“No. And you don’t get the snacks either.”

“Not fair. It’s my food too!”

“You eat like a garbage disposer Sam. Newsflash! You’re not growing anymore!”

“I might be…”Sam grumbled under his breath.

“I sure hope not, we’ll run out of house to put you in…”

“If you idjits are done, can you wrap it up so we can get some work done?” Bobby’s voice floated from the library, gruff but not overly angry. Still, it burst the fragile kid-like bubble and both brothers quietly finished putting the supplies away.

At some point in the afternoon, Bobby (or most likely Sam) had dragged a whiteboard to the library. Jo’s picture was taped in the upper corner, her smile too bright for the room. The rest of the board was depressingly blank.

“Ok. Let’s start from the top,” Bobby said as they walked in, tossing a dry erase pen to Dean. “Which means you’re going to explain to me why you’re taking Ellen’s money in the first place, boy.”

Dean ran his hand down his face, pressing over the eyes. He’d been trying to avoid that. “You know why.”

“When I say _‘if you’re good at something, never do it for free’_ , I didn’t mean for you to gouge someone who’s practically family!”

“I know that, Bobby —”

“Good!” Bobby interrupted. “So call Ellen, tell her you’re keeping the advance to help us look but that she won’t owe you a cent when it’s done.”

“Like hell I will.” Dean raised a hand to stop Bobby’s answer. “I’m doing it for you, damn it.”

“For me? Why would you be doing something so pig headed for me?”

“Because it’s enough to cover your surgery cost! We could get you to a good clinic, where the supplies are new and nurses actually trained. And even if the docs say they can’t fix your spine, it’d be enough for a wired system.” He took a breath, his voice down to a whisper. “It’s enough to give you your legs back.”

They both fell quiet, letting the forbidden dream hang in the dusty air. A cheap plastic crinkle cut through and they turned towards Sam.

“Really?” asked Dean.

Sam shrugged, neatly opening the packaging and fishing out a few of the dried bananas rounds. “They made it to the cupboard, they were fair game.” He popped them in his mouth with a flourish and the crunching echoed around them for a second. “Anyways, I have nada. Anyone had more luck?”

Dean turned to the board and wrote ‘MATRIX’ in blocky letters before striking it through. “I spoke to Transit down at Junction and she’s getting the word out to all the smugglers in and out of the Sprawl. If anyone sees them, she’ll call.” He added Transit’s name to the board. “I tried to talk with some of the gangs around Ellen’s, but I have no contacts out in Renton, so that didn’t go so well.”

“Yeah well, don’t feel too down,” Bobby said. “I’ve made more than a few calls. Nothing so far, I’ll let you know once the phone starts ringing, but a name, a picture, and her mom’s reputation is little to go on.”

“So we all have nothing.” Dean hit his head against the board, resting his forehead against the cool surface. “How is that possible? She can’t have vanished— she’s not a rabbit in a cheap magic show.”

Sam coughed in that way that meant Dean wasn’t going to like the words about to come out of his mouth. “I mean, weirder things have happened. We could ask —”

“No. Absolutely not.” Dean cut him off without moving from the board.

“I mean, he could help, De.”

“I’d rather eat my still-beating heart.”

“He’s not wrong, you know it, son,” Bobby said. Dean turned his head to look at him with an expression battling between horror and betrayal. “If not _him_ , we’ll need to ask around, really ask, not just politely inquire and hope we have enough chit to cover the favour.”

Dean groaned. “There goes the medical fund.”

“You’re the one who said to see if the Armadillo community could join in!” Sam sputtered, almost dropping his fruit in indignation.

“Yeah, well…”

“Oh, I see. You thought I could sweet-talk Charlie into doing it for free. After we nearly got her brain fried during the last favour we asked, and you wouldn’t let me forget about it for a month. You’ve either got balls the size of a small country or you think I’m an idiot.” Sam's voice had risen as he talked, ending just shy of a shout.

“It’s not. That’s not. Come on, Sam, you know that’s not how I meant it.”

“Boys!” Bobby’s voice cut through Dean’s poorly planned stammering and Sam’s next bout of righteous ranting. “I can stay in the chair another few months. Don’t make that a factor.” He turned to Sam. “Since your brother’s pride seems to be the core of the problem here, I think the next best guess would be the snob.”

Sam looked down at himself and then up and down at Dean. “We need to change,” he said.

 

 

 

Dean rolled his shoulders, scuffing at the ground with the tip of his boots, making sure the collar of his coat was up as far as it went, obscuring his features. Being downtown so soon was a stupid, stupid plan. He glanced up to gauge the length of the line-up, scanning the busy street beyond the dripping edge of the marquis that kept them out of the rain. Dean was confident that their reputation could get them in through the door, but it was insufficient to allow for casual line skipping like he’d pulled the night before. The crowd was different too, thrumming with excitement and adrenaline, rippling with laughter.

“Stop fidgeting,” said Sam. “You’re attracting attention.”

A new burst of giggles on Dean’s left made him roll his eyes. “You’re one to talk.” He looked at Sam, actually grateful for once that his brother was so large and massive, standing with his back to the street and using his bulk to hide Dean from the passing cars. He was wearing a sleeveless tunic top, asymmetrical on the hips that only highlighted how freakishly tall he was. On a normal sized human, it would probably have looked ridiculous.

“Yes. But I’m doing it on purpose to distract from you. So stop.”

Before Dean could answer, one of the girls from the giggling cluster separated herself from her whispering friends and crossed the two steps towards Sam. Dean tensed, shifting his weight. He wasn’t carrying any weapons, but the girl was half his size and walked on vertiginous heels. He would win in hand-to-hand. Sam rolled his eyes, smirking. Dean didn’t care, he would remain defensive of his baby brother until they were both rickety old men, if they lived that long.

“Hi,” said the girl, in a fakely coy manner. She was blinking up at Sam, fluttering her eyelashes in what seemed like a practiced move, trying to stand straight with her shoulders back, to display the barely there translucent shirt under her crop jacket. “My friends and I, we were wondering. You have such pretty hair, but it’d look a lot better if you braided it. Would you want us to do that? I mean, we have time.”

Sam smiled gently, colour rising in his cheeks as he tried to find an answer, watching helplessly as she ran her hand up his arm. Dean burst out laughing, folding in half and wiping at his eyes. “Oh, that’s rich. That’s perfect. I keep telling you you’ll end up invited to a hair braiding sleep-over.”

“We never said anything about sleep,” another girl added, seemingly emboldened by the first’s success.

Sam was saved by the doorman’s round, walking along the line and pointing at people to get in. “You and you,” he said, pointing to Sam and Dean. “No plus ones.” He handed them bracelets, garishly golden with the number 3 enamelled in scarlet all around. Sam shrugged and, as gently as he could, removed the girl’s hand from his arm. Dean was still laughing, regaining his composure as he walked ahead and passed through the ten foot tall double doors, immediately feeling the presence of the music as a pressure against his lungs.

“ _You could have helped_ ,” Sam said over the coms.

“ _No. No, I really could not_ ,” answered Dean. He led them through the security and coat check, feeling exposed without the collar around his face. Sam was waiting by the stairs, snapping the bracelet around his wrist.

Dante’s Inferno was a club as wrapped in self-importance as the name indicated. A spiral staircase took patrons from the lobby into each successive level, styled after the levels of hell. Large landings on each floors were marked by equally grandiose locked doors. The first level was Limbo, a cacophony of lights and smoke, and the most crowded. For most of the patrons, it would be as far as they could go. It could be any of a hundred other clubs in affluent cities, attracting barflies and corporate wageslaves. Sam and Dean pushed on, through the eager-eyed kids hanging out at the door, looking for an invitation to be allowed further down. The following level was warmer, the dancers having shed most of their clothing, rubbing and sliding across each other with glistening skin.

The third sub-level was a burst of fresh air. The air conditioning gusted every time the door opened, cooling the beading sweat on their skin and sending goosebumps up Sam’s bare arms. This level was less crowded, the dance floor occupied by lounge chairs and low tables. The space was divided by long tables, lined with consumables, from food to alcohol to more esoteric drugs. Two of the walls were high-resolution screens, displaying the matrix host of the club, in all point identical to the physical club, except for the staff appearing as tormented souls and the occasional glimpse at the distorted demonic avatars of security.

Sam tapped Dean’s arm, pointing with his chin towards the back of the room. Their contact was reclining on a Roman style chaise, wearing washed out jeans and a deep, v-neck shirt in soft grey. The too comfortable look clashed in the environment, he was claiming the space instead of being allowed in.

“Hello, boys,” he said, gesturing with one hand, holding a champagne glass, at the loveseat across him. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” said Sam, sitting down. “We appreciate you taking the time to meet with us, Balthazar.” He squirmed a bit as Dean sat beside him on the not-quite-large-enough couch. Dean followed his line of sight to the serving cart a few feet behind Balthazar. It was lined with silver trays containing capped needles in neat rows.

“We’ll try not to take too much of your time,” said Dean. “We’re looking for --”

“A missing girl and her two dumb friends, yes, I know,” Balthazar interrupted. “I’m rather hurt it took you this long to ring me up, really.”

“You know where she is?” asked Sam, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

“I didn’t say that.” Balthazar gestured to one of the waitresses and waited for her to refill his glass. “However, you have been making a lot of noise and the effort is commendable, it really is. The problem is that you are thinking on too small a scale.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dean. He had an idea, though he really wanted to be wrong.

“You’re only looking for the one girl. You’re missing the pattern.“

“There was nothing I could pick up,” Sam said, with a bit of self-defensiveness in his voice. Dean pressed his thigh against his brother’s for a second, trying to convey that he wasn’t blaming him.

“Oh, I doubt there was anything to find on the matrix. The _absence_ is the pattern. There’s been a lot of missing kids. More than usual, even for the Sprawl. Just not the kids that would ever appear on the news or trigger amber alert. As far as the officials are concerned, no one is missing at all.”

“Because they don’t exist according to them. SINless kids.” Sam completed the thought.

“Yes, but it’s even more finely tuned. Not too many from a given territory or gang. Always, until now, the ones that would have no rescue, because they didn’t have a family, or their family didn’t have the resources… She’s not the first runner’s child to go missing. Just the first one someone cared to do something about.”

“I’m going to be sick,” said Dean.

Balthazar dropped a leg from his lounging position and nudged a bucket around the side of the loveseat towards Dean. “Go ahead, if it makes you feel better.”

Dean stared at the bucket blankly for a few seconds, trying to figure out where it had come from. He looked around, realizing there was one per seat across the room. “Gross. Now I might really be sick.”

“Moving on,” said Sam, jabbing an elbow into Dean’s flank and raising an eyebrow at him, “Do you know where the kids are, and who’s behind it?”

“Sadly, no and no. If you do find out the latter, please do let me know. There’re several parties who would be interested in that information.” He drank deeply from his glass and looked pointedly at Dean. “As for the former... Have you tried asking your not-boyfriend? I could sell you the contact info of other mages, but let's face it, you're not going to play nice with a lot of them.”

Dean scowled, which apparently was either adorable or hilarious, based on the laugh it got out of Balthazar.

“Well, do keep me informed, will you? I might even forget about the bill.”

“Will do. Thank you again,” said Sam, standing up.

Knowing they’d been dismissed, Dean rose as well and grabbed his brother’s elbow, marching him away from the hypnotic sight of the hypodermic syringes. After a few steps Sam shook off his hand, and they rose out of perdition.

 

 

The hinges on the door were stuck a bit, making Dean stumble when it opened with a jerk. He righted himself, pulling awkwardly at his clothes, looking around to make sure no one had seen him. Nothing on the outside marked the place as a clinic, even the windows were opaque and painted with layers of black giving way gradually brighter colours. It had been meant to be a mural inside, but the project had never been finished, existing now in a state of abstract entropy. The people knew anyway. From word of mouth, referrals, desperate blood-soaked midnight pleas. The hard plastic chairs had been repurposed from a condemned school, and over a dozen people sat on them, mostly silent and avoiding each other’s eye contact. Giving dignity to each other’s pain where the world would not allow them that much frivolousness. The air smelled of under diluted bleach and ammonia. Dean realized he had missed the scent.

A blond woman stepped out of the furthest examination room, tapping on her tablet as she walked. She raised her head to scan the room for the next patient when she saw Dean, still standing awkwardly near the entrance. He raised his hands in a placating gesture as she made a beeline for him.

“No. Whatever you’re about to say, you’re not bleeding on the floor, it’s not an emergency, so no. Just turn around and walk out,” she said. Her voice was level and restrained in a way that required way too much practice, contrasting with the fury on her face.

“He won’t return my calls, Rachel. Five minutes. I just need five minutes.”

“Well, did you stop to think that there’s a reason he won’t pick up the phone? A reason why he had me screen his voicemails after the first week? Or could you not fathom that you’re not the only one hurting?”

Dean ran his hand over his face. He deserved the lashing, he could admit as much. “I’m here, ok? I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t important. Five minutes. I’ll wait.”

Rachel looked him up and down. She sighed and shook her head. Either the anger had burned out of her, or Dean truly looked harmless and pitiful. “I’ll put you in the triage. If there’s absolutely no one above you in urgency, I’ll call you.” She turned her back to him and went back to work, finding the next person on her list and escorting them to the examination room.

One of the chairs tucked in a corner was free and Dean sank down into it thankfully. It was uncomfortable and too low, but the wall at his back felt safe. Being _here_ felt safe, in a way that hurt. He closed his eyes, not sleeping but allowing his mind to drift, keeping an ear out for Rachel’s voice. The activity around him so common and normal, feet shuffling, coughing, a crying toddler and the shushing voices of its parents.

He’d missed it, just spending time at the clinic, helping where he could with field-learned first aid tricks and just being an extra pair of arms. He’d even missed the boring repetitiveness of shelving supplies, keeping an inventory and counting everything twice, down to the pill. It took forever, but it was always worth it, for the soft smile and the kiss at the end that was nowhere near soft.

The rattle and groan of a dying engine startled Dean from his daydream. He passed a hand over his face, looking around the room. There were fewer people, either having gotten what they needed or given up and left. The baby was gone, he hoped they had their turn. He straightened up as Rachel came running towards the door, dragging a gurney. The door closed behind her and there was a heavy second of stunned silence before it reopened, dragging chaos in its wake.

Rachel was now somehow atop the gurney, straddling whoever was being brought in, pressing down on his chest with all her might and counting out loud. Dean could see blood gurgling up around her, soaking into the otherwise dull grey of her disposable scrubs. It matched the rhythm of her compressions.

“Thirty,” she called, lifting up and rolling her shoulders.

Dean followed her gaze, realized he’d been avoiding looking at who was pushing the gurney. Castiel was holding a respirator bag over the patient’s face and he pressed the ugly ribbed plastic twice, watching for signs of respiration. Dean felt his own breath catch. Cas’ hair was messy, as always, and there was a streak of blood over his left cheekbone. Dean wanted to go and wipe it off, to go put pressure on the wound, any wound. To help. Castiel looked around the clinic. He held Dean’s gaze for a too short number of seconds, before looking across the room.

“Rick, we’re taking him to the back. Anyone tries to follow, you keep them here. The cramps are from an ulcer— I’ll sort you out afterward.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, pushing the gurney through the traffic doors that separated the waiting room from what was used as a trauma and operating theater. Dean started breathing again, trying to stamp down and silence the voice in his head that kept screaming that Cas had looked at him, seen him, and asked someone else for help. It felt like ground glass in his throat and ice in his veins, but he absolutely had no time to deal with it.

Rick was a large man, a bit heavier set than Dean, but strong and capable. They hadn’t worked together but Dean had seen him around and knew he was competent. Rick nodded to Dean and they both took position. Cas was probably expecting angry and panicked family members, teammates or, if they were particularly unlucky, someone looking to finish the job. Dean clicked off the safety on his pistol as Rick pulled out a machete. They had this.

Two hours later, Dean was idly sweeping around the waiting room, still shaking from adrenaline. Everyone had left, in trickles after the trauma case’s arrival and as a flood, when Cas had to tell them the man hadn’t made it. His name had been Akos, and Rick had volunteered to drive his distraught father home.

“He’ll see you now.” Rachel’s voice made him jump in surprise, he’d forgotten that she was still here. For a moment he’d almost forgotten why he was here, only knew that he didn’t want to leave. Dean nodded and handed her the broom, pushing towards the small room, innocuous and yet there was sudden dread in the pit of his stomach. Rachel patted his shoulder as he passed, then the door closed behind him.

Castiel had changed, the stretched out grey t-shirt had once been one of Dean’s, but it’d always looked better on Cas, though it hung looser now than it usually did. There was still a smudge of rusty red high up on his temple, and as he moved to shuffle things around in the cupboard Dean could see the exhaustion on his face. Dean hopped on the examination table, wax paper crinkling beneath him, legs swinging in the air. It made him feel like a child, for some reason. He wondered if Sam could touch the ground with his oversized legs.

“Hello, Dean,” said Cas, finally turning around.

“Heya, Cas.” Dean swallowed. There was a lot he’d been wanting to say, but now that Cas was here, facing him, he just wanted to drown in the blue of his eyes. He felt parched, falling into the silent staring contest he had missed. That he had taken for granted.

“Why are you here?” asked Cas, breaking eye contact and looking to the side. “Rachel said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

“I…” Dean took a deep breath. Missing kids, business transaction. Keep things cool and detached. “I need a favour.”

“Of course you do,” said Cas. His voice was flat, but Dean could feel the disappointment rolling off him.

“There’s…” Dean stopped. Rachel’s words about not being the only one hurting ran through his mind. “I’m doing this all wrong. Cas, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For everything, I guess. I’m just... sorry.”

“This isn’t a church, Dean,” Castiel said, leaning against the low counter while gesturing at both the dwindling supplies and the empty room beyond the door. “I don’t deal in absolutions.”

“I know. And I know I messed up. But, for now, can we... Can we pretend we can work together?” He looked up, hopeful. “Jo’s missing, Ellen’s kid. And a bunch of others. We think they were taken by the same people and we can’t find them. We need your help. I’ll pay for the service, help you get supplies. Name your price.”

Castiel looked at him for a long moment, not meeting his eye, just looking at him in that way that made Dean feel like he was made of glass and spun sugar. “I’ll need a personal item of hers,” he said, voice low in what sounded like a surrender.


	5. Search and Rescue

Ellen was waiting for them, by the time Dean pulled up next to Bobby’s house. Cas had insisted on taking his own vehicle, following Dean as if he didn’t know where the house was located. There was a whine in the motor that made Dean wince.

“I should really fix that loose belt in the motor,” said Dean, as Cas stepped out of his car.

“It will get looked at,” answered Cas, closing the door of the car. He was carrying his supplies case, a sturdy rectangular bag made of weathered brown leather. Cas said that the style was called a doctor’s bag in the early 1900s and that the connotation pleased him. Dean wondered where Cas kept finding them and why accessories of a century ago were a thing he knew and cared about. He had thrown a hard plastic tube across his back, the strap worn and frayed and the surface scuffed. It was screwed shut on both ends, and barely bigger than a sword.

Cas had barely crossed the threshold when Ellen grabbed him in a hug, holding on like a drowning victim to a life preserver. “Thank you. For coming and agreeing to help,” she said.

“Of course,” said Cas. “I would have come for the asking.”

“Would you?” Ellen pulled away from him, rubbing her cheeks with the palms of her hands. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair hung limply in greasy streaks. Cas didn’t dignify that with an answer, moving further into the house, where Bobby was waiting.

“It’s damn good to see you, son,” said Bobby as he grabbed Cas’ hand with a two-handed clasp.

“I am glad to see you as well. Do you have a space set up for me?”

“I cleared the kitchen table if that’s big enough?” Sam piped in from where he was sitting on the stairs. He was resting his hands on his knees and his chin on his hand, making him him look like a spindly kid.

“Yes, it’ll suffice,” answered Cas. He narrowed his eyes as he looked over at Sam. “You’ve been forgetting to set up reminders again, and favouring your right side. Be careful not to worsen the sores on your hip.”

“Do the what now?” asked Dean, stepping forward from the entrance where he’d hung back, trying to ignore the thing under his lungs, the swelling feeling of having most of his people at arm’s reach again. All of that got shoved away neatly by the idea of Sammy being hurt.

“It’s nothing Dean. I’m handling it,” Sam said with a roll of his eyes. He unfolded from the stairs. “I’m going to find Benny a place to park. He should be here soon.” Sam brushed past and out, patting Dean on the arm as he did. Dean watched him go, trying to see if he was limping, wishing he had Cas’ sight for diagnosis.

“Ellen? Did you bring the item?” Cas called from the kitchen. Dean shook his head and started moving again. Sam would speak to him when he wanted to, hounding the kid was pointless. Cas had been setting up in the kitchen, hanging balls of coloured glass by the window and placing an incense burner at the bottom of the sink so there’d be no risk of fire. The doctor’s bag was open on the floor, displaying a jumble of vial and trinkets. The plastic tube was on the table, still sealed.

“Yeah. I, hum, I brought her hairbrush and some clothes and her favourite knife.”

“If the clothes are anything she liked, let’s leave them for last. The hairbrush and knife should work,” Cas answered, crouching by his bag and retrieving reagents and materials. “Leave them on the counter, then wait in the library, please.”

Dean waited until Ellen did as instructed and retreated from the kitchen to walk in, carrying one of the couch’s cushion. He put it down by the table, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Cas was unscrewing the top of the plastic tube, carefully unrolling the contents and pinning it under metal weights at the four corners. The map was beautiful, a rendition of the North American continent in intricate details, the same size as the table. It was hand painted with watercolours and crow quill pens.

They were made by a young woman living above the clinic; Castiel bought them with food, tea, and silent company. Agnes never left the apartment and did not speak, scared of the world or just preferring to be apart from it, though she had her ways of being understood. Each piece was months of work. Dean had gone up once to bring her food, he’d stayed all afternoon watching her work. She had asked him to sing for her. Agnes was probably the only person alive who liked Dean’s singing.

“From what we know she’s not out of the Sprawl,” said Dean. “If you want to use that map instead.”

Cas raised his head, cocking it to the side. “Are you certain?”

“Pretty sure.”

“But not certain. I’d like to do this only once, so let’s not assume. I’ll go with experience combined with expertise, and do the more thorough search.”

Dean swallowed the protests forming on the edge of his lips. Cas was right. Dean wanted, desperately needed, Jo to be alive and still somewhere in the metroplex, where he could reach her. But Castiel was right. It would do them no good to rip the Sprawl to shreds if her and the other kids had been spirited over the border. “Do you want me to go?” he asked, instead.

Cas took a long time to answer, measuring ingredients into a large brass bowl. “Make sure Ellen remains out of the room. Otherwise, the tracking might link to her instead.” He picked up the bowl, swirling the contents. “You may stay.”

Not waiting for an answer, seemingly done with the whole conversation, he poured the liquid from the bowl over the map, and it spread over the surface in an oily shimmer. Cas struck a match, an old school one made of wood and smelling of phosphorus, and the liquid caught fire. Dean watched as the flames circled the map and devoured it, bright greens and purples and blues. It ran fast over the eastern board, over the NANs and the reclaimed lands. The flames ran slow on the west side, surrounding the Seattle Sprawl with careful licks

Dean could feel the rise of Castiel’s magic before he saw it, it was a vibration along his bones, it sparked against the invasive tech of his implants. It had been night outside, but now light streamed through the kitchen window, the stark white of burning magnesium or lighting strikes. It cast strange shadows across the room, fractioned by the coloured glass baubles, making Dean’s eyes water as he turned away, focusing on the large shadow wings that unfurled from Cas’ back. It lasted but a moment, then Cas was falling down, folding into a perfect lotus position on the cushion Dean had brought. Show off. Dean lowered himself to the ground carefully, vision still swimming with a strange afterimage of the kitchen. One of these days he was going to burn out his eyes watching Cas work. And wouldn’t that be a perfect irony? He leaned carefully back, bracing Cas without jostling him, willing himself to be a wall, a support, inanimate and void of emotions. He was failing.

“Sam told me the whole gang was here, but I didn’t believe him.” Benny’s voice was low, almost gentle. There was amusement dancing in his pale blue eyes.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have believed it either.” Dean smiled and turned his head toward the other man. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“It’s my pleasure, brother. From what Sam said you’ll need the backup.”

“They’re in Tacoma. I’ll take us there,” said Cas, stretching and standing up to glance over the burnt remains of the map.

Dean scrambled to follow suit, brushing dust off him as he stood. “Us?”

“Benny is right,” said Cas. “You’ll need the backup.” He looked back over his shoulder. “When’s the last time you fed?”

Benny smiled, letting his fangs extend and retract, then winked. “I have supplies in the van. Ready when you are.”

 

 

 

Dean was restless. Recon was the smart thing to do, but sitting in his car and waiting for the signal was always torture. Benny was having a look around and Sam was trying to get a matrix access, even if it was unlikely to lead to anything. Cas was off in Benny’s van, doing his own preparations, whatever those were. The drugs sang under Dean’s skin, making everything a shade too bright, and his heart beat a bit too fast. He and Sam were going to have a good, long talk afterward, by which he meant he was going to yell at Sam about the kid having some of the stuff stashed, still. But he had to admit he was a bit thankful: even at a fraction of a dose, the Long Haul was doing its job and banishing sleep. Hopefully, they’d be done before sunrise, which sat better in his gut than waiting another sixteen hours to mount a rescue.

A soft rap of knuckles on the window was the only warning he got before Benny opened the door and settled on the passenger seat in the back of the car. A draft of outside air followed him, humid and ripe with the organic rot of the paper mills and tanneries. Tacoma Aroma, the locals called it.

“So?” asked Dean.

“Converted warehouse. Large loading dock at the front. Normal door next to that. No windows. No telling what they did inside.” Benny settled, uncapping a large thermos bottle and taking a long swallow. The liquid inside sluiced, thick and heavy, like severely congealed soykaf or not coffee at all. Dean shuddered.

“ _It’s not on the Matrix either_.” Sam stretched, before continuing out loud. “It’s as close to a Matrix black hole as you can get, except for the energy consumption.”

“Awesome,” said Dean. He watched the time tick on his comlink, the green fluorescent glow marking 3 AM. “Let’s do this.”

They approached on foot, in a loose diamond formation. Benny took point; he had the sharpest senses and was the hardest to surprise. His favourite machete swung by his side as he walked, the surface a matte black, almost invisible in the hours before dawn. Sam and Dean flanked him, a few steps behind, keeping an eye on their sides and behind them, turning to cover each other with ease. Cas stood in the middle, protected by their masses but with clear lines of sight all around. The streets were deserted, it made the fine hair at the back of Dean’s neck stand up. They could hear, faintly and distorted, the port waking up with the fishing fleet, the bells of the buoys. Tacoma was industrial and by the water. By all rights, there should be some movement around their group, but it was like moving in a bubble of solitude. Dean reset his grip on his rifle, the muzzle still low, the leather of his gloves creaking in the still air. His guts were screaming against the whole thing, and he trusted his guts.

The warehouse was the middle unit in a series of three, cheap constructions with shared walls. It was bland, anonymous, and a good defensive position. Sam crouched by the door, deft fingers picking the lock. Dean turned to look back at the street, covering his back. There should be surveillance, guards… No corporation he knew would go this far just to claim camouflage. It was plain stupid as a security protocol. The lock gave with a short, metallic sound as the deadbolt moved. Sam scrambled up and to the side. Benny pulled the door open, fire code be blessed, and stepped in. The door shielded Sam and Cas, as Dean followed the vampire.

Bright neon light almost blinded Dean as he stepped through. There were a few lockers and a folding card table with four chairs in the room, with a battered beer refrigerator in a corner. Dice and a cup were scattered over the table, a sizeable pile of candy on one side. A muffled thud drew his attention to the half-opened door to his right, back to Benny as he winked and lowered the guard to the floor. The guard was limp, unconscious and Dean was pretty sure he’d find a crushed larynx if he tried for a pulse. Benny tossed the guard’s comlink to Sam before stepping out of the small bathroom, the door closing most of the way before getting stuck by the tip of a boot. Sam smiled his goofy kid smile and flipped one of the chairs over, connecting the coms to the rectangular slab of plastic and metal that was his cyberdeck. His fingers flew over the keys, as if the staccato rhythm was the keycode itself. After a few seconds, Sam grinned and gave them a thumbs up, then wiggled four fingers. Three more signals on the coms to find.

Dean crossed to the door leading out of the makeshift breakroom. He nodded to Benny and pushed down the handle. It swung open easily, unlocked and well oiled. Benny’s short hissed inhale was the only warning Dean got as he rounded the corner to follow. The space was as brightly lit, unrelenting crude light bathing everything in stark sterile white. There were rows of what looked like rectangular containers or boxes, the edges rounded and the sides an opaque or polarised glass. Thick coils of electrical wires descended from crisscrossing beams near the ceiling, connecting to the top of each box. It smelled of antiseptic, bleach, and ozone, thick and cloying despite the mask.

“ _What the hell?_ ” Dean said, looking around. Benny was crouching down next to the first box, examining the base; they seemed to be on some sort of wheel assembly, to be moved around.

Benny was about to answer when one of the guards turned the corner from the second row, raising what looked like a flechette gun, as he stepped in range. Dean brought his own rifle up, but before he could shoot, the air shimmered in the space between them. The swarm of projectiles flew by him, a stray blade nicking the side of his face by the cheekbone. Dean barely felt the cut, the flechette darts were fine and sharp, he registered the warmth of the seeping blood more than anything. The rest passed over his shoulder and embedded into the borrowed body armour Cas wore. Strapping it on him had been a fight. The guard fell down in a graceless lump, like a marionette with cut strings. The white-blue glow was fading from Cas’ eyes as Dean sidestepped and adjusted his stance. The second guard peeked around the corner to assess the situation, these guys were trained if not highly competent. Dean squeezed the trigger, sending out a controlled burst of fire. The first bullet hit him in the chest, breaking against the body armour. The second hit in the unprotected throat. The third hit the box, diverted by the recoil. The guard collapsed, choking wetly and grasping at the torn flesh in an attempt to stanch the blood.

_“Oh fuck, Squirrel, look_!” said Sam, pointing at the container the bullet had hit. The ballistic glass barely spidered, but the polarisation had dropped, either broken or set to switch off on impact. Dean wasn’t sure what he was meant to look at. Inside the box, the cables split and connected all over a scarecrow-like figure. It was standing up with its arms stretched out along a cross-shaped structure. Two, clear tubes ran to its neck and arm, fibers covered its face like a mask, and its fingers twitched. Dean blinked and his brain finally caught up. It was a person, a teenage boy with matted dirty hair falling from his bowed head. His fingers and other body parts were twitching because the wires connected to electrodes, keeping the muscles moving.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean dropped the rifle, letting it settle on the sling over his shoulders. Benny was prying the container open with his knife, foregoing finesse for efficiency. It hissed as it opened, the air inside fresher and cooler than the warehouse. He had ripped out the restraints tying the kid to the structure (and Dean could see he was a kid, maybe fourteen years old) and was working through removing the stuck on electrodes when two things happened. The first was a voice, female and middle-aged, calling out “No! Don’t!”. The second was the kid’s eyes opened, vacant of any cognition. He snarled, a feral guttural thing, trying to snap at Benny’s neck. As far as plans went, it might even have worked, on anyone but a vampire. Benny easily turned and used the kid’s momentum to send him hurtling outwards, into Sam’s waiting arms. Sam knocked the kids’ knees, bringing him to the floor and into an easy, practiced, armlock. Still, he snarled and fought, dislocating a shoulder against Sam’s hold.

“Not following proper procedure upon awakening creates an attack response. It will continue until disabled. ” The woman walked towards them, she was dressed as a nurse or maybe an orderly, in coarse white fabric and sensible shoes. She produced a tranq patch from her pocket and in one movement was peeling back the protective cover and slapping it on the kid’s neck, over the bleeding site of the ripped IV tube. The effect was near instantaneous, the kid going limp as the drugs ran through his system. “It will continue the attack pattern until reset can be achieved. To avoid the lost time, make sure to follow sedation protocols and code word sequence.” Her voice was flat, devoid of affect as she spoke. Dean met Sam’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She had stepped over the collapsed guards, but there had been no hesitation when walking into the congealing blood pool. She was also avoiding eye contact, not looking at any of them in particular as she spoke. “In order to expedite the process, please state the asset’s number. If you do not have a selected asset, state the profile required and the caretaker will pre-select the appropriate assets.”

“OK, that sounds healthy and all,” said Dean. “How about you tell us where Jo is? Then we’ll be on our way.”

“All assets have asset numbers. Use of pre-acquisition identification has been linked to faulty performance.” The nurse turned to face Dean as she spoke, a full body movement instead of just the head tilt it warranted. She was staring somewhere around the level of his Adam’s apple, underneath the armour and mask. It was unnerving.

“Identify female assets,” Sam said. She turned to face him, with a wet squelch sound under her feet. She tapped a few keys on what Dean had thought was a wide bracelet but could now see was an implanted computerized interface. Green lights appeared over roughly half of the containers, in a checker pattern. Sam nodded to Benny, who picked up the unconscious kid and moved him back towards the door. “Identify acquisition dates of a month or less”. Most of the lights blinked out, though a few turned on. “Invert polarization,” said Sam.

“ _Smart_ ,” said Cas on the coms.

They spread out, exploring the marked spots. Dean found her first; her hair was matted with dried blood. His throat felt too tight, as pride and dread fought for a moment. She’d gone down swinging.

“Here,” he called. “Open this one.”

The nurse walked up to him, pressing her hand to the lock on the container. Dean was trying very hard to ignore the perfectly red imprint of her soles on the floor. “Activation code is ‘hound’. Asset has not been processed for regulation period. Current narcotics should clear its system within a two hour window. Please report any erratic performance for corrective action.”

Dean gathered Jo in a bridal carry, wondering if she had always been this light. Maybe it was just the adrenaline speaking. “ _Ok, let’s roll out of here._ ”

“ _No,”_ said Cas, still examining the exposed people in his row. “ _We can’t leave these people here_.”

“ _We can’t save everyone. We got what we came for, the rest are not our responsibility_.”

“ _Leaving them here, it isn't right_ … _But staying ain’t safe._ ” Benny shrugged, spreading his hands in an apology. “ _Maybe we can let people know where this place is?”_

Dean rolled his eyes and looked at Sam. “ _Little help here?_ ”

“ _I’ll manage if needed, though I’d appreciate if Moose could get the data about what narcotic got pumped through them_.” Cas paused for a moment, either in consideration or for effect. “ _But I think you’ll want to come here, before you go_.”

Dean frowned. He didn’t want to have this fight, not now and not later. Getting the intel was a good idea however; that he had not thought of it was sloppy. Jo was a dead weight in his arms, completely limp, he wanted to get her home and truth be told this place was creeping him out. Castiel pointed to the far side of the row, under the green light of Sam’s selection criteria. The kid was small, ten or eleven at the most, with a mop of unruly brown hair. Cas’ hand on his shoulder felt distant and inconsequential. Unruly hair that took too long to brush, and if he was awake his eyes would be green and sparkling with mischief.

“ _How…?_ ”

“ _The tag says three weeks_ ,” Cas said. “ _I’m sorry. For what it's worth_.”

“ _She’s not the first runner’s child to go missing… He tried to warn us._ ” Dean coughed, resettling Jo in his arms. “ _Yeah, ok, you’re right. We’ll find a way. Moose, can you get us a download? Grab everything, sort later_.”

“ _On it_.”

“ _Fang, Feathers, go with the nurse or caretaker, get them unhooked_.” Dean started walking towards the outside, trying to think of their next moves. He walked back to the impala, settling Jo in the back seat with a threadbare blanket around her shoulders. He fiddled with the coms, opening a different channel and muting the team’s chatter. “ _Wombat, we’re going to need back-up. Transport and medical, most likely. Any idea?_ ”

“ _About damn time you get your head out of your ass and call_.” Bobby’s voice was grumpy over the coms, more than usual. “ _Feathers warned me you’d be finding a lot more than you could chew before you left. I’m already working on your evac_.” His voice cut off, he was probably toggling channels as well. “ _ETA less than a minute. Just watch your mouth. It is not your name you’ll be banking on, idjit_.”

Three large, pristine, black trucks filed past Dean as Bobby spoke. They were silent, running on electric engines and bore no plates or identifying marks. Dean switched channels, not bothering to warn Bobby. The old man would understand. “ _Incoming. Friendlies. DO. NOT. SHOOT._ ” Four motorbikes were escorting the trucks, beasts built for power and speed. Two stopped by Dean, the riders dismounting and walking towards him with the easy synch of those who train together. The two men wore matching black pants with armoured vests. They wore no patch or colours, but for the katanas on their back. They bowed to Dean and one leant down to peek at Jo, bundled up and still out on the back seat. Dean bowed back, awkwardly, and nodded to them. As soon as they nodded back, Dean ran.

The new arrivals had clearly taken over the rescue operation by the time Dean cleared the corner to the warehouse. A man and a woman with wide arm bracers adorned with a red cross were barking out orders, ordering chaos with the ease of combat medics. Sam was talking with a third, gesticulating widely to compensate for his hesitant Japanese. Cas and Benny were helping carry an older victim, somewhere in his mid-twenties. There were large, freshly healed keloid scars over his midsection and back that made Dean wince.

“Fifteen assets in total. If not returned within 24h the caretaker will have to file a missing inventory report.” Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, the nurse had crept up to him squarely in the blindside of his vision. She was staring at his throat again, but her stillness was broken by a tremor in her right hand, like an involuntary muscle twitch. It wouldn’t have been noticeable but for the utter stillness she had demonstrated until then. “If assets operations are required past the 24h mark, there are premeasured vials of maintenance products shelved on the back wall. To ensure privacy, the caretaker counts down the vials at the end of the day and matches to utilized assets. An asset matched to a vial will not be added to a missing inventory report.”

“ _Moose, did you get that_?” asked Dean.

“ _Yeah. Feathers can you grab the lot of them? We’ll need them to do a tox screen too._ ”

Cas nodded and headed to the back, easily finding the pharmacy and emptying its entire content in a bag.

“ _How about the data?_ ”

“ _Got it,_ ” said Sam. “ _It’s encrypted but I’ll dig into it once we’re out of here._ ” He stopped and said a few words to the man next to him. “ _As soon as everyone is loaded we’re to follow them. They’ll take care of clean-up._ ”

Dean turned his attention back to the nurse. “Can you come with us?”

The hand twitch grew, almost an arm movement now. “To ensure privacy the caretaker cannot make positive identification of clients and cannot leave the premises.”

“Can we make you leave?”

“Security safeguard against either identification or exit are automatic and cannot be disarmed. Attempts to push the boundaries of these safeguards can be messy. Protective covering is recommended.”

“ _Feathers said there’s a metallic, unnatural mass in her brain, cher,_ ” said Benny. “ _We’re ready on this side, what’s the word?”_

_“She’s probably done everything she could,”_ Sam chimed in. _“I’ve been getting info from her like querying a database. This is her, toeing the line as far as she can.”_

_“Alright. Let’s go.”_ Dean walked out, with a last look at the woman. Her hand was still twitching, and there was a faint smile on her lips. Outside, the sun burst above the horizon in a glory of golds and reds.


	6. Regroup

Dean paced in the corridors of the too-clean labyrinthine clinic. He was trying his best to forget where it was located; he knew he wouldn’t be welcomed back once he left. Up and down the stairs, round and round the elevator cage, across the nurse's station and to the smoking lounge with the never empty tea dispenser. His brain was fried, emotions stretched taut and yet the drugs still singing in his blood denied him the bliss of blackout sleep. He looked forward to hitting that particular wall and crashing into oblivion.

Sharp right to avoid the infectious ward, up the service stairs and across the corridor with the lab, triple-gloved workers passing glass slides and readings to each other. The full quarantine units were gone, so that must be a good sign, if they no longer acted as if they were analyzing something from Mars. Up again, on the left, back to the Sanitarium ward. There was smoke in the air, fake clove sprayed on synthetic tobacco. Lisa. No tears, but her face was red from scrubbing and the nape of her neck wet from splashing water.

“There’s a smoking lounge downstairs.”

“Yeah. I like it here better. It’s quiet.”

They both fell silent, Lisa dragging on the cigarette with a shaking breath. There were windows in the stairwell, and Dean watched as waves of rain crashed against the double pane glass. It was a proper storm this time, the water pushed from the bay and over the Sprawl, as if it was trying to wash the city clean. It was never enough, though perhaps sluicing off a layer was as much as could be asked for.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Dean asked, long after the tobacco was gone, ashes caught and confined. Lisa had always been considerate like that.

“Couldn’t afford you,” she said. “I’m barely keeping us treading water as it is.”

Dean startled and looked down at Lisa, but she was avoiding his eye. “Liz, I would...”

“I’ve seen you turn down people screaming, bleeding and begging for help Dean. I stood by you as you did it. You’ll only work free for family. You’ll repay debts. But anything else requires pay. Remember saying that?” Lisa’s voice was on a tightrope before breaking. She was throwing his words back at him, the words he’d used because he was angry and hurt, but now he found they cut both ways. She got up, dusting herself absentmindedly. “Because I remember. I remember you holding me and telling me it was better that way. And we don’t fit inside that box labelled family, not anymore. Ben’s not yours.” She was still avoiding his eyes, but she raised a hand to stem any reply. “He’s not. You moved on. What possible card did I have that I could play?”

She shoved by him, out the door and away, towards the rows of beds and their unconscious inhabitants. Most of them didn’t have any identification yet. Dean knew they likely never would, street kids weren’t in the system by definition. He curled his fists, gripping over empty air. He wanted to punch something, a wall or better yet something that would bleed and hurt. He wanted to take this jumbled mess of pain and inflict it on someone else, but he had no target and no mark. Dean took a deep breath, then another, trying to match the rhythm of the wind outside and the crash of the rain on the window.

Between the slow burn of the anger and the static buzz of the drugs on his brain, Dean realized he’d lost track of time. None of the nurses looked familiar to him, or maybe he hadn’t paid enough attention. The heart monitor had been muted at some point, so their steady cacophonic beeping was gone, but the large room still felt eerie and wrong. Lisa was sitting by Ben, holding his hand in both of hers. IVs had been run and each patient was nestled in wires for monitoring and life support. They looked much like how they had been found, only the beds differed.

Cas was talking with one of the doctors, going over charts and results. He was still in the same clothes he had been for the run, they all were. Cas had ditched the body armour somewhere, and the purple hoodie he was wearing was stained with sweat and what was probably coffee. He looked up from the chart and noticed Dean, handing the clipboard to the doctor and bowing to take his leave.

“They’re stable, but we won’t know more for hours yet. I’m going to go get some rest. You should do the same.” Cas looked back across the room, to Ben and Lisa, “besides, your job is done. Probably time to get your payment.”

Something snapped in Dean, like a string tightened too much and breaking into discordant sounds. “Sure, go. You always leave, anyway.” His voice rose a bit as he spoke, like a dam overflowing. “When things don’t go your way, or things get hard — suddenly, you wash your hands of it and you leave. So go! I’m surprised you’re still here. You get people to do what you want, you get in my mind and then nothing.” He dropped his voice, almost in a mumble, “and then you’re gone and we’re still bleeding and torn.”

Cas grabbed Dean by the arm and frog-walked him away, under the bemused gaze of the doctors and nurses. “Here is not the place for this conversation, Dean,” he said. He walked them a few meters then turned sharply, opening an unlabeled door that turned out to be a broom closet. Cas shoved Dean inside and followed, closing the door behind them. Some part of Dean, very small and quiet, chuckled about the fact that the door latched from the inside, with one of those hoop things like in fancy hotels. Cas was staring at him, pupils blown wide in the dim illumination of the closet. They were so close, he could smell their combined sweat over the bleach and betadine.

Dean took the step forward, closing the distance between them, caging Cas against the door with his arms and his body. His anger had dropped out of him, and now he felt empty and floating without it. “Don’t go,” he said.

“Dean,” Cas started to reply, but he cut off in a sharp inhale as Dean started nuzzling at his neck, dropping kisses from the tendon of his shoulder and working his way up to his jaw.

“I missed you. Tell me to stop if you want me to go. Tell me you didn’t miss me.” His lips brushed against Cas’ ear, sending warm breath along the shell of it. Dean knew it drove Cas mad; if he was honest he was counting on it.

“I’m… I’m not sure this is a good idea. Actually, I’m sure this is a terrible idea. Dean, wait.”

Dean pulled away, not far enough. He didn’t want to let go of Cas’ body heat. Besides, one of Cas’ hands was holding a fist full of his shirt, and his other had found its way around Dean, long fingers slipping under the edge of his waistband.

“I can’t... I can’t be stress relief Dean.”

“I don’t want you to be.” Dean leaned forward again, speaking over Cas’ neck, feeling the heat of him against his body, the line of his arousal pressing into his thigh. Dean smiled, and the spike of pain from pulling the butterfly bandages on his cheek only added another level of bone-deep satisfaction. Cas wanted this, wanted him. “I want us back. I want us to start over. I want you to stay, just stay…”

Cas groaned and grabbed at Dean’s face with both hands, crushing their lips together. It was artless, hunger and heat and want. They were both panting by the time he let go, Cas instead planting his hands on Dean’s shoulder and pushing him gently away. “We can’t go back to what we were Dean, walking away almost killed me. I won’t be able to do it twice. But I can’t keep on watching you destroy yourself.” His head dropped as he swallowed, obscuring his eyes. “I want you back, but the you that wasn’t so callous. The you that still valued life.” He placed a hand over Dean’s mouth, stopping him from talking. “The rent-a-cop tonight didn’t have to die. You would have left fourteen victims there and… I know you’re better than that.”

“I can be. I can be for you.” Dean pulled away from Cas’ hand, dropping kisses and kitten licks on his fingers, biting gently at his wrist. “I’ll be so good for you.”

“I know you will try.” Cas sighed, chasing Dean’s lips again, the kiss slower this time, with less of an edge of desperation. He tilted his hips, seeking pressure against Dean’s thigh.

Dean took that as an invitation, letting his hands roam under Cas’ shirt, tracing circles over his back and stomach, covering as much ground as he could, heading down. He broke the kiss to go back to Cas’ neck to fumble with the fly of their pants, trailing bites over Cas’ collarbone as he took them both in hand.

They were both on edge, from the run and the tension between them. There was no room for teasing and subtlety. Dean claimed Cas’ mouth again, swallowing his moans and the small gasping noises of desire, because Cas was always loud and vocal. Dean loved it, but they were _his_ noises. He didn’t want to share them with the rest of the floor. It was his ambrosia, the best thing he could look forward to in a day: the way Cas rolled against him, rutting up into his hand, the soft skin of his cock rubbing against his, the taste of him on his tongue, lips tingling from the kiss.

They rocked together, growing desperate. Dean used everything, every trick, every little inch to his advantage. He knew Cas, knew how to touch him and drive him wild and kept pushing until Cas was weak and shaking against him. It was over far too fast, the two of them panting against each other, coming back down to earth. With his clean hand Dean reached and grabbed a disposable rag from an open packet, cleaning them off as gently as he could with the scratchy fabric.

“I think we really should get some rest,” Cas said, righting his clothes.

“Yeah, ok,” said Dean.

 

 

The office was warm and almost cozy, despite being, in essence, a windowless box. It was tucked out of the way, at the back of an otherwise overly large boiler room in the basement of the clinic. Nobue said that when people attacked they either went up after their mark or stopped at the electric panel. No one bothered to open the pocket door by the gas meter. Sam couldn't argue with the logic, but something about the whole thing made him feel strangely claustrophobic. The chair, however, the chair he could get enthusiastic about. It had fancy sensors and cushions that walked and moved and shimmied. No pressure points, no sore muscles, no cut off circulation. Nobue had insisted Sam take the chair since he was a guest. The conversation had lasted entirely too long, neither of them relenting. Nobue had won. Sam couldn’t say he was sad.

He was buying himself one of those chairs. Or maybe he could retrofit the mechanism into the back seat of the Impala. Dean would have a fit, but it just might be worth it.

Nobue had sunk to the ground in a meditating lotus position, still but for the flicking of his eyes. He had asked if Sam wanted a projection on the screen, but Sam had declined. As much as he understood and respected the offer for the proof of trust it was, Sam was convinced there were things he was better off not seeing through the security system. The secrets bound to flourish in a mob-operated, uncharted, hospital, for one. The fallout of the incredible mess that was his brother’s love life, for two.

He pulled out his cyberdeck, running his hands fondly over the plastic case. Most of the scuffs and abrasions had been carefully put down in Bobby’s workshop, some rust lifted from the junkyard and transferred so that it’d look battered and worn. The burnt marks where the plastic had melted were earned, a reminder to be careful. Sam ran his fingers over them, the sharp edges smoothed out by the repetitive motions. He didn’t need the deck for what he did, not really, but that was a fact that was better broadcasted to as few people as possible. Technomancers that got outed often didn’t live to see the next day, either snatched up as lab rats or killed by those who knew just how dangerous they were. Besides, Sam wasn’t stupid. Untested, unopened files downloaded from a black op site did not go into his brain if he could help it. The deck acted as a storage unit and, in cases of desperation, didn’t do a half bad job as a bludgeoning weapon. Sam pulled out the connecting wires, pushed the spikes into his datajack, and the world fell away.

For much of the early 20th century, Virtual Reality was a pipe dream, made of vapor and what ifs. Then came the infrastructure crashing virus of ‘29. In the ashes of the old networks the new VR technology of simsense spread. A full consciousness immersion, where all senses were solicited and any information could be displayed in an intellectually pleasing visual representation. From the old web grew the new grid, a vast collective hallucination outside of the physical laws.

The local public grid was a patchy thing. It had been sculpted to look like the old grid, pre-crash, but it showed neglect in a thousand glitches and pixelated breaks. Sam was standing on a burnished stainless steel road, streams of neon lights leading off to other destinations as the blur of the other users’ personas flew by. If he looked up he knew he’d see the corporate hosts, floating like lazy moons, and the bright satellite scintillation of smaller hosts fighting for attention. On the horizon, always to the west, stood the Seattle downtown grid, clad in the shimmering green of the Emerald City project. The road as it neared it flickered, from steel to golden bricks and back. Looking at it gave Sam a headache, so he blocked it out as much as he could.

Sam floated up and away from the main track, finding a quiet corner of the grid to sit in. He moulded a pillow of cooled lava and sat, booting a stupid, time-wasting game on the deck. It was old, almost antique and pointless. Sam played for fifteen minutes, rewinding clockwork pirates and fetching items across simple polygon maps. Making sure that should anyone from the Grid Overwatch Division take an interest, all they would see would be a harmless kid (always assume every persona on the matrix is a kid) not worth a second glance.

Satisfied with his alibi, he tasked a sprite to keep playing and dove further into the deck, facing the files he’d pilfered. The data mass was encrypted with no visible ownership mark. Sam grinned. He liked a good challenge. He ran a hand over it, leaving soot marks over the shimmering liquid-like surface. It rippled and grew, about the size of a house. The mercury sheen resorbed, showing the intricate clockwork gears and tumblers of the encryption. Sam walked around it, studying, before deciding on a vector of approach. It was a lock, just a large and intricate one. Sam had been picking locks since he was a kid, for food and shelter; or just for fun when Dean was out and Sam was bored.

The tumblers were the most logical place to start, but a vague sense of unease stopped Sam just as he started moving towards them. He carefully sent a curl of smoke up and around them, making sure not to move anything. He felt the syrupy stickiness coating the inner workings, hidden from sight. He pulled the tendril back, tugging against the coating of tar. Sam frowned, a tar pit would glue him in place and render him helpless, but wouldn’t actually harm him in any real way. He rose up with a flap of wings to examine the area above the lock. Hidden behind the gears of the clockworks he could just make out the assembly for a tracer program. Clever. It would trap an intruder while calling home, both so that the data might be recovered and so the physical location of the decker would be compromised. Sam backed away slowly, watching to make sure the countermeasures remained inactive, a mine burrowed and waiting for the right pressure to go off.

He walked back around, studying the movements of the mechanics, the shapes and rhythms of it. He counted the beats against his thigh then jumped in. An arm over that lever, a wing in the space between two bearings, throwing his body upon the wheels of the gears, moving with the roll of them to the next interstice. Smoke curled and probed in front of him, while ashes left behind slowed down the machinery like very fine sand, not enough to jam the works but gaining him milliseconds to make his moves. It was dance and it was war, making Sam feel out of breath and bruised, and just as he thought he might have taken on more than he could handle, he pushed through the encryption.

Sam was falling.

Past the shell of the encryption, the data file was a self-contained host, a world or reality built inside the Virtual Reality of the Matrix. And it had to be one of the worst Sam had ever seen. There was no gravity, no sense of up or down. Sam couldn’t see where he had come from, the walls had receded once he’d passed them. The space was black, untextured. A 3D grid extended around him, a perfect sphere and each intersection of the line was a file. Sam reached for one of the glowing icons and the grid shifted, rotating, or maybe he was the one spinning. It was giving him simsense vertigo: he could feel the physical nausea building somewhere far away in the real world.

Sam’s wings flared out and he closed his eyes to stop the growing sense of panic. He grounded himself in the control he had over his own persona, feeling every aspect of it, every choice he’d put into designing it, a perfectly fitting second skin. On the exhale, he opened his eyes and reached out, grabbing the spherical grid and shrinking it in his palm until it was the size of a marble. With a flap of his wings, fire streamed around him, mixing with the smoke tendrils that covered his body and spreading over the black featureless void, devouring it. The flames receded and Sam landed softly on the waxed wooden floor. The library was warm and well lit, with a large table to study and comfortable chairs. He flicked the marble sphere at the end of the table, where it transformed into a filing cabinet, with neatly labelled folders and drawers. Whistling happily Sam climbed up the stairs to the massive front door and locked the defence system away into a lava box, watching it steam and crack. The clockwork patterns on the outer wall stilled, absorbed as art deco etchings by the environment.

The table was covered in folders, helpfully gathered as police style reports with a large picture of each victim and reports about their status. Most of the medical jargon went over Sam’s head, but two facts stuck to him: there were way more than fifteen folders here, and this organization had been a well-oiled machine. The money in and out was easy to quantify, though it’d probably take Sam more time to trace than what he had as Nobue’s guest.

A paper plane landed on the desk. Sam reached for it and it unfolded into a floating video screen. He could see, crisp and from three different angles, Castiel dragging Dean into what was helpfully labelled with a bright neon arrow as a broom closet. Sam groaned, pulling up the spreadsheet for the betting pool. He suddenly owed money to a whole lot of people, including the head nurse. Sam gathered the folders and put them back in the cabinet, watching for a bit as they re-organized themselves into alphabetical order. He poked at the other drawers, finding more medical babble, but this time chemistry illustrations were attached. He set those aside for the lab technicians.

The last drawer held what looked like mission reports, complete with dates and times. About seventy percent of them were tagged as compromised. Curious, Sam pulled the label and followed the thread to a specific report. There were two pictures attached to it, one of a man in a lab coat, with messy brown hair and eagle green eyes. He had what looked like a broken nose, the kind earned from a fight. The second picture was of the same man, lying dead on the deck of a yacht in the Seattle Bay. Sam felt a chill go through him. He knew this scene. He’d been watching from the same camera this picture had been taken from. This was the man Ketch had killed at the party. Sam closed the folders and took off running up the stairs, back to the Matrix and hurtling towards his body. He had to find Dean


	7. Poor Etiquette

Dean woke up more rested than he had in weeks. Part of it was the unrelenting full blackout unconsciousness the Long Haul brought when it finally quit. The rest of it had everything to do with being wrapped around the heat of Cas’ body and having his face buried in dark hair. Dean considered staying like this for the foreseeable future, before reality caught up to him. It came in steps and layers, first with his bladder: so full it was beginning to hurt. Then came the pounding on the door, loud and echoing and not, after all, the sound of his own heartbeat.

He stumbled out of bed, pleased to see he was still wearing boxers and an undershirt. Cas grumbled and grabbed at the sheets, burrowing to fight against the sudden heat loss. Dean took his pistol from the discarded holster amidst the pile of clothes on the floor and opened the door nonchalantly, keeping the weapon out of sight. It took probably too long for his foggy brain to process what he was seeing.

“Are you going to gawk all day, brother? Or are you going to let me out of the damn sun?”

Dean stumbled backwards to let Benny in, peering through the door and up at the sky. It was a rare, almost clear day, with the cloud cover thin enough to let him discern the bright, midday sun. He closed the door and turned back towards Benny, watching as he removed the large scarf from over his face and the gloves on his hands. Every crease and sliver of skin the fabric hadn’t fully covered was an angry red, like a bad sunburn. Cas had made a beeline for the cardboard tray Benny held, sheet somehow draped around him in a way that allowed him to walk and have his hands free and yet covered everything. He grabbed the soykaf cups, sniffing at the contents, and shoved one back onto the tray with a grunt before shuffling off to the kitchen.

“I guess this one is black,” said Benny with a low chuckle, offering the rejected cup to Dean.

“Seems so. Not that I don't appreciate it or anything, but what's with the delivery?” Dean claimed his own cup and took a swig, regretting it immediately. The drink was scalding hot, searing its way down his throat as he coughed.

“I gather you haven't checked your comlink?”

Dean paused mid-motion to a much more careful sip. Now that he was thinking about it there had been a third thing dragging him out of his comatose state. It had sounded a lot like the chitter of an unsynced comlink. “Fuck. What did I miss?”

Benny shrugged, but there was an amused smirk curling on the edge of his lips. “Nothing much. I figured you and Cas had hit your, ah, wall at the same time.” Benny winked. “Sam wants everyone back at Bobby’s ASAP.”

“And he sent you as an errand boy why?”

“Said he had enough terrifying things seared in his brain and didn't need more.” Benny shifted until he was next to Dean, the two of them looking into the kitchen. Cas was staring at the toaster like it had personally insulted him and several generations of his family. “Besides,“ Benny added, dropping his voice to almost a whisper, “I think he's pissed at Cas’ recently expensive capitulation. I’ll tell everyone to expect you in an hour.” He wrapped himself back up, gave a sardonic salute, and walked back out into the bright day.

Cas joined Dean where he was still standing, staring bemusedly at the closed door. “What was he talking about?”

“I have no idea,” said Dean, “but we have an hour to make a fifteen-minute drive?”

“No,” Cas answered with dousing finality. “Let me find you a toothbrush.” He left, still clad in his sheet, taking the breakfast plate with him.

The library at Bobby’s was crowded, even compared to its usual standards. Sam had taken over the holoprojectors, making everyone shuffle around and fight for space on the one couch. He was moving with the short buzzing stop-motion gestures of someone severely sleep deprived and wired to the gills. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and added it to the lot of things to discuss later, when they were no longer in crisis mode. Whenever that came. Ellen had been given the least broken down seat on the couch, with Cas claiming the other. Bobby had moved next to her and was holding her hand, running a comforting thumb over her knuckles. Benny, Dean, and (of all people) Balthazar were standing in the doorway and squeezed between the couch and the bookshelves.

“So get this,” Sam said. “I dug into those data files. Turns out these guys are sadistic, but the brainwashing is new.”

“Wait, wait, back up,” said Dean. “Brainwashing?”

“Oh yeah. Turns out the stuff they were dosing them with is a psychoactive, biologically derived compound. From, uh, Djinn venom I think. Meant to put them in a controlled Dreamscape, and then do some tweaking things from there because it gives access to the subconscious levels of the mind.”

“And you didn’t lead with that because?”

“Well, I gave it to the medics, and they’re trying to reverse-engineer it. It wasn’t nearly as interesting as the rest of this.”

“Oh, really?” Ellen’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Yes. Not all of their people were on board with the program. One of them tried to blow the whistle on the whole thing.” Sam pulled up the lab coat picture and gesticulated towards it. “This guy, who should be familiar to Dean —”

Upon hearing his name, Dean’s eyes snapped back up to the trid. He was squeezing Ellen’s arm, to offer support and grounding after Sam’s casual dismissal of the first hint they had for Jo’s recovery. He frowned at the screen but the face meant nothing to him. He shook his head and opened his mouth to say so, but Sam just kept on talking.

“— seeing as he ended up wearing most of his brains, was called Mick Davies. He was in charge of the Seattle Sprawl.”

“The guy Ketch took out?” asked Dean, catching up.

“Yup. Remember when I told you something was weird? This guy was going around but breaking the patterns. He was going straight for the reporters. Tabloids, entertainment, didn't seem to matter.”

“It seems odd to us, but to someone raised in a Corp it probably made sense,” Cas mused. “It seems to fit with the plotline of several of the daytime entertainment programs Dean favours.”

Dean wished he had a subtle way of telling Cas to shut up without making things worse. He settled for staring at the back of his head.

“So whatever Corp was running the little shop of horrors,” Dean said when he turned his attention back to Sam, “hired Ketch to stop the leak?”

“Or maybe they didn’t have to hire him, if he is one of theirs.” Balthazar made a small dismissive gesture as all eyes turned to him. “He appeared on the scene, what, a year ago? He is good, mind you, very good. But no one knows where he came from. There’s no military background, no rep we can track back to his younger years. I mean, unless he’s a Ghost, no one reaches that level of skill and equipment out of the ether.” He shrugged. “I’ve suspected he was a Corp plant for a while, but never had any proof.”

“What’s the endgame here? Why even have someone like that move in Runner circles?” asked Bobby.

“Talent acquisition. It’s what they called it,” said Sam. “The victims were targeted and screened for existing skills and temperament. The brainwashing was just for loyalty and convenience.”

“Makes sense. It’s what I’d do.” Benny raised his hands in a vague apology. “If I was building a nest - which I ain’t, before anyone asks - I’d want street kids, with more cunning and resilience than coddled Corp kids.”

“You’re telling me that, because my Jo knew of the life... And God knows I’ve tried to keep her out of it... Because we've all made sure she wouldn't be easy prey…” Ellen’s voice cut off and she shook off Dean’s hand, taking a deep breath. “That’s what made her a target?”

“Looks that way,” said Sam.

Ellen nodded, grinding her teeth. When she spoke the emotion was absent, under the lock and key of practiced disassociation. She was gearing for a fight. “They killed their man to stop the leak. Now we know, so what's the next step?”

“We can’t go to the media,” said Balthazar. “It’s a stupid plan and would bring too much attention to parts of the shadow world that can't afford it. They’ll try to cow or bribe us into silence.” He paused, drumming two fingers on his lips. “Then in all likelihood pick us out when our guard is down.”

“Or we can take the fight to them. I have coordinates. Human experimentation is frowned upon by the Corporate Court, so they're not in extraterritorial space— there shouldn't be that much security.” Sam looked around the room sheepishly.

“Again, Sammy, way to bury the lede.” Dean stopped, calculating. “Say we do this. We’re going to need more people.”

“That, I can arrange,” said Balthazar.

“Just arrange it somewhere else,” Bobby interjected. “I don’t want random schmucks in my house.”

“Perhaps we could ask Crowley’s hospitality.” Cas shrugged, adding, “Anything that stirs the community like this is bound to be bad for business.”

“Wise as always.” Balthazar’s smile was a bit too warm and his eyes a touch too soft. Dean squashed the rising urges to snap some petty, jealous reply. They couldn’t afford the distraction, and he didn’t want to break the fragile truce with Cas.

“Great. Give us a call when it’s done. In the meantime, if Dean can come with, I have an idea.” Benny tilted his head towards the door, waiting for an answer.

“Sounds like a plan.” Dean crouched down, speaking against Cas’ ear. “Sam is high as a kite on something. Can you make sure he’s fit for a fight?”

“Of course.”

Satisfied, Dean shrugged on his leather jacket and stepped out into the afternoon light, followed by the nearly mummified vampire. Ellen’s stare felt like a burn on the back of his neck.

 

 

The second floor of the White Phoenix was brightly lit when Dean and Benny got there. It felt strange and alien, recessed lights in the ceiling that Dean had never noticed throwing everything in stark relief. It banished the easy anonymity, and he felt naked without it, like a kid without his security blanket. The room looked bigger in the light, but also like it had lost some of its appeal. There was a small crowd already there, grouped in teams and eyeing each other with barely concealed mistrust. Every single one was openly carrying at least one weapon. This was going to go down splendidly.

Dean whistled, a long sharp note, and waited for everyone to turn their attention to him. The hush that fell was as uncomfortable as the lights: resting on a knife’s edge.

“I gather that if you’re here, you’ve had the highlights of the situation already.” He waited for a few beats, weighing his words. “Doing this, it’ll put a black mark on our reps. If you can’t afford that, if you need to be able to keep working, step away now and no one loses face. Going after a corporate offshoot will label us all as uncooperative. Jobs will dry up. For some of us, we might never be able to work again, not in this city at least and maybe not anywhere.” Dean watched as a few people stood up and left, nodding at them as they went. There were no hard feelings, he could not say he would have done differently under similar circumstances. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get these sons of bitches.”

Organising runners around a common goal was a strange balancing act. Every team moved (more or less) as a unit, with clear leaders and roles, comfortable with each other but hostile to outsiders. Paranoïa kept you sharp, kept you alive. It was hard to override years of ingrained habits: you respect other runners, but you don’t trust them. You don’t trust anyone. In the end the simplest solution was to divide the assault into zones and assign them to teams. Trying to make it work any other way would have led to bloodshed before they ever made it out of the Phoenix. Coordinated guerilla warfare made it harder for the plan to have any sort of timetable; hopefully, it would also make them unpredictable on the defensive side.

The smooth, ivory handle felt cool in Dean’s hands as he went through his weapons check, clips and knives spread on the table in front of him. He was trying very hard not to listen to the other huddles around him. What he didn’t know, he could not reveal.

“Why are the magazines colour-coded?” asked Cas, head tilted in confusion. “You’ve never done that before.”

“Blue ones are stick ‘n shock taser rounds. Green is gel rounds. Both are non-lethal, on paper. I'm trying, Cas.” Dean looked up and smiled, probably too wide and too earnest, seeking his lover’s approval. Cas hummed, low in his throat and frowned. Dean felt a spike of annoyance; he had done something wrong again and and he didn’t know what.

“Take some live rounds,” Cas said at length. “They don't _all_ deserve your mercy.”

Sam joined them, fiddling with his comlink, trying to reach a happy medium so the groups could talk to each other but not feel spied on. He’d changed his clothes beneath the armoured vest, though, from the poisonous look he shot Cas, he had not come down gently from his chemical cloud nine.

“Call for you. Or are you too busy being Mr. I-call-the-shots-and-I’m-always right to take it?”

Dean sighed. He earned a bit of that, bodily autonomy and all. He gestured for Sam to transfer the call and smiled when the call id display blinked up.

“This is unexpected. To what do I owe the honour?”

“A little birdie told me of your evening plan.” Sergeant Detective Jody Mills sounded amused, which was a good sign.

“Unh. That bird wouldn’t happen to be around 5’9” and looking at me like I’m an idiot?”

“Something like that. I can’t step in, not in an official fashion anyways. But the place – where I have no idea you’re going – happens to be in a low priority zone, so response time should be anywhere between five to ten minutes once the call comes in.”

“Closer to ten!” The voice came from behind her, bubbly and happy. Dean smiled, he liked Donna, even if he didn’t get much chance to see her. It wasn’t very safe for either of them to be seen with runners, not if they wanted to keep their job at Lone Star. “It’s a very bad thing to let your security contract go delinquent, dontcha know,” Donna continued. “I’m sure the bean counters will set things right, but a full audit might take a week or four. Oh, if you want to have more time, have something flashy happen elsewhere. I can probably push back the priority code.”

“And, in the meantime, I can make sure good, honest guys answer that call and an investigation gets opened. Leave them something to work with, would you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The line cut, no sense in getting the call traced. Dean looked around, cobbling a new plan together.

“Yo, Shackles! How would your team feel about doing something dumb and flashy?”

 

 

Renton was aggressively average. Any other day, Dean might have appreciated the paved if not squeaky clean streets, the regular garbage pick up, and the air one could breathe without any filters. As it was, the peaceful flow of the Green River was making something uneasy churn in his gut. The corp building was a sleek construction of black plasteel and mirrorshades windows, modern and beautiful and utter garbage as far as defensive layouts go, at least from what Dean could see. There was a fine line between appearing harmless and being more concerned with design flair than function. Dean hoped their luck would stick and the entire compound would fall on the latter side. Behind him he could hear the metallic clicks of Ellen checking her shotgun; he was avoiding her gaze in the rearview mirror. Sam and Cas were also silent, everyone aware that only a few miles northeast of them was the nicer residential area, with the parks and the community garden. The haven Ellen had built for herself and her daughter. In the vastness of the Sprawl, it was too close.

Dean stared at the corporate logo, all sharp angles and neutral colours. What kind of name was NeuroStar? They probably had some cutesy slogan too, about the betterment of humanity. He let the thought go, centring himself in the now, with each breath and heartbeat. The sun was starting to go down, blazing colours over the river. They would have to move soon, before the exodus as people clocked out.

“ _Hello, bitches_!” Charlie’s voice startled him. “ _Operation blind the Bastards is complete. All the cameras in the area have nicely looped footage. You are good to go_.”

“ _And the building itself_?” asked Sam.

“ _We hammered everything with a Matrix connection, up to and including the printers and snack machine. If we missed any cameras the security spider should be either too busy or too unconscious to do anything about it_.”

“ _Awesome_.” Dean smiled, predatory and a bit sharp. It was show time.

“ _Have fun storming the castle_!”

They got out of the car, falling in step easily. Ellen and Cas claimed point, eldritch light gathering in Cas’ eyes. There would be no stealth tonight, no subtlety. This was about tracing a line in the sand, so others would pause before preying on the shadows.

Castiel raised his hand and the light surged through him, spreading like a shockwave. The windows cracked and went flying inwards in a swarm of sharp-edged shrapnel. The conceited idiots hadn’t even used tempered glass.

Ellen headed straight for the armed guard standing next to the elevator and pumped two shells into him, leaving him gasping on the floor. The armour had taken most of the force, but he’d be black and blue tomorrow, on top of bruised ribs. Dean winced but didn’t say anything. Ellen had just spent the last few days on very little sleep by the side of her daughter, whose cognitive functions were barely above a soylent block right now. She was entitled to as much payback as she needed, in his book. He concentrated on looking as threatening as he could under the full face mask. Sam knelt next to the receptionist’s desk, pistol held in a fake casual, unthreatening slant. The poor guy was still crouched in a terrified ball behind the desk. He was young and good-looking, in that way that screams of having a few expensive plastic surgeons on call, features just a smidge out of human range. His shiny name tag read “Bryan” in clean laser engraved letters.

“Hey there,” said Sam, somehow still sounding friendly under the garbled voice masking. “We don’t really want to hurt you, but we will if you make us, is that clear?” Sam waited for the man to nod shakily. “Excellent. Now, what you’re not going to do is sound any evacuation or general alarm, because we don’t want people running into the line of fire, do we?” Sam didn’t wait for the answer this time, just continuing on “If you have any drill where people are told to stay put, you can do that. Then we’ll be on our way, and you’re going to be fine. If you try anything, my friend here —” he nodded towards Dean “ —will be happy to render you unable to do anything else, and we’ll still be on our way.”

The man pointed shakily at the desk and, moving slowly so Sam could track his movements, pulled up schematics of the building and pointed to the active alarm. Something in what Charlie and her posse had done had apparently already triggered the “active shooter drill.” Sam leaned over and connected his comlink to the interface. The schematics blinked up on Dean’s display and he gave Sam a thumbs up.

“ _Blue Team, Red Team, did you get that?”_ Dean asked, walking towards the stairs. Behind him, he knew Sam would tie Bryan and the unconscious guard with riot zip ties for the cops to collect. He didn’t need babysitting as he did so. He switched channels away from the coordinated assault back to his team. “ _Fang, what’s your status?_ ”

The door on top of the stairs opened, unlocking from the inside, and Benny grinned at him. “ _Way ahead of you, brother_.” Dean patted him on the shoulder and moved into the corridor, muted greys and carpet. It was a nice office, all things considered. He watched on the com’s display as the other teams entered the building, rooms flashing as they were breached to be secured.

Before Dean could say anything, a small unit of armed security personnel turned the corner to face them. He pushed Benny down on instinct and brought his pistol up, lining a shot on the first of the guards. His aim was off and he hit him in the shoulder and stomach, cursing as he did. The taser rounds stuck and electricity arced for a moment, before the guard went down. Dean had to admit that the advantage of doing things Cas’ way was the lowered accuracy requirements. Benny growled, low in his throat, and Dean chuckled. It was never a good sign when the vampire became non-verbal. Dean sidestepped to be out of his way and watched with fascination as Benny crossed the space, moving faster and smoother even than most of the exquisitely cybernetic enhanced could dream of. Benny was holding a modified police batton, sturdy metal except for the rubber grip and outfitted with the core components of a cattle prod. Dean did not envy the poor sods in his way.

He kicked open the first door, the cheap lock and composite door offering only a token resistance. He stared down the frightened employees, scanning over the neat cubicle desks and organized workspace. A coffee machine in the corner was bubbling and overflowing, making a growing puddle of increasingly weak coffee. The glance between two of the girls, a nervous shuffle and flicking eyes to his right, gave him the split second warning to turn. As a result, the hardbound copy of the “New and Revised Corporate Tax Code and Statutes, Annotated, 5th Edition” hit him in the upper arm and shoulder rather than the back of the head. The book was being wielded by a younger man, barely out of his teens, with the dishevelled hair and rumpled shirt countless trid-shows had taught Dean meant he was an underpaid intern or student. The kid was also drenched in nervous sweat and his eyes were showing too much white, panicked that his one heroic shot at saving everyone hadn’t panned out. Dean grabbed the kid’s hand, twisting so that he’d drop the book, and then folding his arm back into an armlock. Getting the rest to surrender and in restraints was easy after that.

“ _Sweepers on my position_ ,” Dean said on the general com. The less... experienced volunteers from the Phoenix had been assigned to escort the civilians out. It wasn’t glorious, but Dean didn’t want more kids hurt in this, if he could help it at all.

Benny had dispatched the four-man team, and Dean stepped over them as he walked down the corridor. The floor’s layout wasn’t as stupid as it could have been, with large working areas closed up along the corridors, turning and coiling into rectangular spirals. It reminded him of a school, and their protocols had clearly been adapted from campus’ “active shooter” protocols. The unarmed workers had barricaded themselves in their offices and turned off the lights (when they could), making as little noise as possible. Not that it helped them when the active assault teams were doing floor sweeps. But it was a valiant effort. The other defensive feature were the stairs. The ones from the ground floor linked to two ends of opposite spirals, with twin stairwells in the middle leading to the executive’s floor. Dean didn’t know how it had passed fire-inspection. Perhaps they had just thrown enough money at the problem to make it go away.

The stair’s door was unlocked, which didn’t bode well. Dean waited for Cas to catch up, the sweepers taking out the last of the hogtied security and more casually restrained civilians. Dean pointed at the door with a shake of his head. Cas raised his hand, making the air shimmer around Dean, a protective bubble that would repel or at least slow bullets, enough that his body armour could take the hit without slowing him down. Moving fast was going to be the name of the game.

Dean took a deep breath and opened the door, climbing the first set of stairs two at the time, surprised at the lack of resistance. As he turned the corner of the landing he saw the canisters drop, knowing he was in trouble before the concussive wave shocked him back, stumbling down the stairs. His eyes swam, vision gone blurry from the sudden bright flash as the insistent ringing of a possible ruptured eardrum made thinking nearly impossible. There were hands on him, hooking underneath his arms, pulling him backwards and Dean panicked for a moment, struggling to get free. He’d dropped his gun at some point. His brain caught up after a second, allowing him to overcome the panic of being helpless and vulnerable. He knew these hands and these arms, they were Sam’s. Sam’s hands pulling him to safety, and Sam’s bulk swimming in front of him and headed towards the door, followed by a smaller frame that could be Ellen. Dean closed his eyes, they burned and watered anyways. He waited for the high pitched tone to stop.

It took a few minutes, but he was mostly fine. There was an afterimage of the stairwell when he blinked, or overprinted on everything. But it was manageable, and he could walk, as long as he kept a hip on the railing or a shoulder on the wall to keep himself upright. He’d had worse dizziness from being drunk, or from blood loss. Or drunk while severely losing blood. That had not been his best night. Picking his gun up from where it had clattered down the stairs was only slightly more complicated because bending down was a choice between nausea and falling on his ass. Sam and Ellen, as well as Cas and Benny, must have gone on ahead of him, dispatching the security team perched on the top floor. Apparently, Dean had fielded the only grenades invited to the party. The coms were silent, though he could see the all clear signs on the display across the first and second floor. Red and Blue Teams were on their way out, leaving the big shots to his team and hopefully enough people for the cops to question when they came around. Dean slipped a bit as he reached the landing, heel rolling on a discarded shell, toes making a disturbing squishing noise. He decided not to look down.

The top floor was the executive level. It was open and airy, with plenty of windows letting in the spectacular light of the sunset over the river. There was abstract art on the walls, splashes of ink and paint that no doubt changed with the light. Little nooks and comfortable looking chairs with matrix access points were near the windows. It felt like stepping into a different building, as far removed from the stifling concrete labyrinth of the main floor as architecturally possible. Past the lounge, there were a few desks, separated by glass partitions. Probably receptionists or personal assistants. They stood as sentinels to a wall of gleaming wood split by an oversized door. It was all very gaudy.

It was also all shades of wrong. Dean might be concussed and a little confused, but there was no way anyone from his team, let alone all four of them, had closed the giant door behind them after clearing the lounge. He stood very still, listening to the too deep silence, as he watched the last of the dots flash out on the coms. Everyone else was out and safe. Good. He dropped the clip from his gun, pocketing it out of habit, fingers easily finding the sleek black metal one with the live ammo rounds. It slid into place with a satisfying click. Dean smiled, a small predatory thing. A click was good, meant his hearing was coming back from the blast. He picked up one of the fidget toys from the first desk, little weighted balls with chimes in them, and tossed them up, high and fast enough that he could see the edge of a shimmer before he caught them. Whatever they’d done to Cas the armour spell was holding. He’d done more with less. Still smiling, he pulled the door open, a cinematic grand entrance.

The loud and obvious play of the safety clicking off near his ear was expected, so Dean ignored it. He scanned around the room, counting six armed bodyguards, with better armour and sub-machine guns, probably the elite troops of the compound. Two were aiming at him, the others had their weapons pointed at the rest of the team. They were on their knees, hands linked behind their head, except for Cas. They’d strapped him with one of those magical containment helms, bright flashes of light behind mirrored shades and loud disrupting sounds from the headphones. From the look of this one, there was probably a tongue depressor included in the whole experience. He was going to make them pay for that. Benny winked at him as Dean walked into the room, and Sam tilted his head a bit towards the oversized desk at the back. They were OK, waiting for a signal. Ellen ignored him, looking behind his shoulder at the one holding the gun aimed at Dean’s head. If looks could kill, whoever it was would have dropped dead by now.

“So glad you could join us.” The woman’s voice was clipped, in the tone of those used to authority and being obeyed. Not hard enough for a military background, Teacher, maybe. She had no weapons that Dean could see, and was half leaning half sitting against a desk. She was going through files, old-school printed and paper files, letting him see a picture of himself with a too practiced flick of her wrist as she turned the page. Smooth hands, manicured, crisp white shirt and blazer. “We were waiting for you, but had expected a more… professional approach. Oh well, one lives to be disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, did I need to be pencilled in on your dance card?”

“Oh please, don’t pretend to understand your betters.” She put the file on the desk, on top of similar folders. Dean stepped to the side, nonchalant, gun pointed down and left hand hanging in a semi-closed fist by his side. He saw the unease in the guards tracking him, his change of position was putting their colleagues in the line of fire. But they didn’t move, they kept glancing back at the woman, waiting for the order. The new angle also allowed him to catch a glimpse at his own captor. Ketch had a smirk on his overly smug face.

“What was the plan here, execute everyone in a showy intimidation tactic? Did you think civilian workers would be expensive to replace? That there would be a cost beyond clean-up, sufficient to hurt our margins?” She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. Her hand rose to play with the large metallic cross pendant hanging from her neck, ostentatious and absolutely not her style. It was probably an unconscious gesture, but Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

“Dr. Hess, if I may…” Ketch, sounding sycophantic, too smooth and harmless. He was scared of this woman, probably had been for a long time, it was deeply ingrained.

“You may not,” she answered with a dismissive finger twitch. “This kind of petty emotional play is exactly what is wrong with this industry, and we are going to fix it.”

“By kidnapping kids?”

She scoffed. “Where are your missing persons reports?”

“Man, you’re really blind aren’t you?” Dean chuckled, rolling his neck and shoulders, continuing to move left, muddling the lines of fire. “We’re not all as messed up as you. Your workers are all good and safe in the parking lot for the cops to pick up. A few may be a bit traumatized, but alive. And I’m sure the scientists will have plenty to tell the cops, after all, they were following orders.” He paused and winked. “The accountant will probably fold first, I bet. Corporate Court is going to love getting all up in that happy trail.”

“They won’t. Our people are loyal, not something I expect someone like you to understand.”

Dean shrugged. “I’ll take my chances with the rats. You can’t kill them all without getting even more eyes turned your way. Everyone has a finger in the shadow business pie. How many of those are going to point to you? I’m pretty sure your buyers will be delighted to clutch their pearls and call for smelling salts.” Dean stopped moving, satisfied with how everything lined up. “Too bad you won’t get to see it.”

The good thing about chrome plated fidget balls was that, to someone already in a fight or flight adrenaline situation, they look a bit like grenades. Dean threw them at the guard standing over Ellen, counting on the instinctive flinch away from the projectiles. It worked, and because sometimes Winchester’s luck didn’t completely suck, the guy overcompensated and bumped into the one covering Cas. Dean dropped into a roll, avoiding the half-hearted shot from Ketch, the bullets flying through the space his head had occupied and hitting one of the standing guards. Blood bloomed through the armour. Ketch was using bullet piercing ammo, the honorless coward.

Having clearly gotten the cue to get with the program, Sam headbutted his guard, landing a solid hit in the crotch region, then breaking the guy’s nose as he sprang up from his kneeled position. When he was limbered up, Sam was surprisingly dexterous and capable of those weird yoga moves. Dean shot the guard covering Cas, hitting him in the thigh and hoping that the taser round left in the chamber would spark off the helmet contraption. It was a long shot and it didn’t work, but it got him to switch targets, so Dean still counted it as a win. The next bullet was live and the guard went down, clutching what looked like a nicked artery in his thigh.

“What the fuck?” Ketch sounded surprised or confused, then gunshots flew behind Dean, probably aiming at Benny. In all their fancy surveillance and intimidation tactics, apparently no one had noted that Benny was an actual Vampire, not just posing as one like an overgrown goth kid. Dean got up from his roll, shooting at the guy who had been covering Benny; he was now staring at the wispy grey mist the burly Cajun had turned into. Dean hit him in the chest, cursing as the bullet embedded into the armor. A few seconds later it didn’t matter, Sam had gotten his hands on one of the submachine guns, and took down the guard with two controlled bursts.

Dean was feeling good... this was going better than expected, Ellen was dealing with her captor and Benny should be taking the last one on the perimeter. Good. It’d have been better if he had not lost track of Ketch — somewhere between the gunfire cacophony and everyone moving at once. Hess was now at the back of the room, against a window and crouched by a table or filing cabinet. There was no exit from this room except the doors, and the glass here was spidering with the stray bullets so they’d put real ballistic glass on this level making jumping even harder. Sudden pain blooming in his left shoulder told him where Ketch was: shooting at his shoulder blade apparently. The spell had done its job, countering the buttery ease with which the armour had parted, but Dean could feel his fingers going numb and his entire left arm would be useless for the foreseeable future. He hoped Cas would be able to fix it, it was his favourite left arm.

Ketch was snarling by the time Dean turned around. He was breathing too hard, eyes wide and riding on adrenaline. Dean was pretty certain that if he was to cop a feel Ketch would be enjoying this a shade too much. He didn’t seem to care that his men were down, that his boss was watching. It had become personal, somehow. Dean risked a glance to his right, Sam was looming over the desk. He could hear Ellen’s voice, slow, soothing, probably talking to Cas. It cost him a punch to the jaw and kidneys, making him fall over with a gasp, pistol clattering on the floor as he dropped it. Ketch had dropped his own gun, idly flicking a knife in his hand now. It was long, the blade darkened and double-edged.

Blade was good. Blade was slower than a gun. Dean pulled his own knife out, metal catching the dying light. He could feel the blood, running down his arm, soaking through his clothes now, dropping from his fingers. Better do this quick. Dean lunged at Ketch, but his balance was still more miss than hit. He overextended, which allowed the other man to knee him in the stomach. Dean felt the blade going through the fabric of his pants and the meat of his thigh like butter, and prayed his luck would hold and the bone wouldn’t get nicked. He tried standing up, but his leg refused to take the weight and he collapsed with a short cry.

“Did you really think,” Ketch said, “that there was a world in which you could best me?” He kicked Dean to punctuate his sentence, steel-toed boots making connection over and over. There was a sickening crack as some of his ribs broke, though no one else seemed to hear it. The ivory handle of his gun gleamed, a few inches from him, maybe he could reach it. There was a man standing over it, so that might be an issue. Dean blinked. There had been no old man wearing a suit in the room when he’d walked in, he was fairly certain. Yet there was one standing near him now, face deeply lined and eyes so sunken in to be dark pits. His skin looked like petrified wood, or maybe bark, grey more than any flesh colour. He was reaching for Dean with one hand, like he wanted to cup his cheek. He didn’t look unkindly, Dean thought. His hand was dry, neither cold nor warm. The edge of his vision wavered, darkening, as his whole body started to feel sluggish, drugged or sleepy.

The voice made everything click into place. The woman’s voice, low, reciting words in a language Dean couldn’t place, but with a specific cadence and a rhythm. A mantra. He’d been around enough magic workers in his life (and had one regularly enough in his bed) to recognize a spell when he heard it. Dr. Hess was holding the pendant, and now Dean could place it: it was the garish Coptic cross Sue Ann had worn at the party. When she was promising healing and long life. He reached for the gun and aimed, squinting against the encroaching darkness and the lure of unconsciousness. The sound of a bullet hitting metal was heard and for a brief moment all eyes turned to Dr. Hess, holding the bottom part of the pendant, it had shattered upon the impact.

“Such a shame, missing in your heroïc moment”, said Ketch

Dean took a breath, watery against the collapsed lung “I didn’t”. His smile grew as from behind Ketch the woman screamed and started backing away, stumbling and pushing herself up with her hands. “Do you know what happens to bad owners with attack dogs? They always turn.” He coughed up a clot of blood, as the screams suddenly stopped in a wet gurgle.

The man was back beside Dean, laying his hand gently on his cheek once more. This wasn’t so bad. Maybe he could rest, for a bit. Sammy could get everyone out. His next breath came easier. The touch felt warm now, and that feeling of life flowed from the point of contact and into the rest of his body. Dean blinked in confusion, seeking the pain that he knew should be there, but it was gone. All of his wounds were closed, and he could move his arm again. He slowly got up, testing his leg before putting weight on it. Ketch was staring at the woman’s corpse with an unreadable expression, as Benny bound his hands behind him.

“ _Squirrel, cops. Let’s go._ ” Ellen waved at the door, bringing his attention back to the urgent matters. She was right. Time to be scarce.


	8. Aftermath

**Then**

Benny walked out of Bobby’s house, shuffling towards the Impala and closing the door as fast as he could. The windows were untinted, so it wasn’t in an attempt to get out of the sun. Dean ran a hand over his face, twirling the keys around his fingers and taking his time to walk around the car. Baby sagged a bit as he sat down, he’d have to check her suspension soon. Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel but didn’t speak. Benny was obviously upset or uncertain, and the best way to get him to speak was often to wait it out.

Then again, Dean wasn’t a patient man on the best of days, and the last few days had been far from the best. “Come on, man, spit it out.”

Benny exhaled, long and whistling a bit through his teeth. “Do you trust me?” he asked, at the end of the breath.

“Do I…? Of course I do, what kind of fucked up question is that?”

“I think I know someone... who could help, back at the clinic.”

“Ok, that’s great. That’s awesome. So why are you sweating buckets?”

“Because he ain’t exactly human,” Benny chuckled. He still sounded nervous, his voice raspy. “And I need you to not put a bullet in his brain when we go ask a favour.”

Dean bristled. Creatures rights might make good trid headlines on the late night news, with that Ghoul town out in Cape Cod and the rescinding of the bounties on Weres in most urban areas, but present company excluded they made his skin crawl. “Would that even kill him?”

“Well, no. But it’d be unpleasant and very unlikely to convince him to help.”

“Why bring me along? Why not go ask him yourself?”

Benny turned and looked at Dean, his expression hard to read in the mess of fabric covering him. “The others would kill him, soon as he steps towards those kids, unless you vouch for this plan.” He paused, pulling and pushing at the fabric on the back of his gloves. “Look at it this way. You work with me, ‘cause you know me. But if some other random vampire would walk into that house while Sam was jacked in —”

“He’d never walk out.” Dean interrupted him, his voice flat and dark.

“That’s my point, cher.” Benny rolled his shoulders, settling properly in the seat. “This might not work. I have no idea if he’ll say yes. But it’s the best I’ve got, and it beats having a bunch of kids sedated and vegetative until their bodies give up.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel, backing off with an apologetic wince when the leather creaked. “Alright. Let’s go meet that mystery creature of yours. But if I don’t like what they’re selling, we’re out of there.”

“That’s all I can ask, brother”.

Dean started the car and slowly reversed out of Bobby’s driveway. “I’m going to need coordinates, or some direction…”

The building had once been a brewery. There was a sickly sweet smell of fermentation, though the towering stainless steel tanks were pitted with rust and gaping open. The brick walls still stood strong and smaller rooms had been built from cardboard and tin and vinyl siding. Music was playing from somewhere to their left, something throbbing and heavy on the bass. Dean did not recognize the song. He kept catching movement from the corner of his eyes, the patter of bare feet on the concrete, following them or running away. It was hard to tell, with the way sound echoed and bounced. He heard a small cry of pain, and Benny’s grip on his elbow was the only thing that kept him from going off the path to go investigate. As they kept walking, he identified the sustained buzzing sound that had surrounded the whimper: it was the mechanical sounds of a tattoo machine.

The lower level was silent in contrast, punctuated by the sound of dripping water, either a tapped aqueduct or leaking sewer. It also felt smaller, the ceiling lower, cinder block walls closing in, making it almost claustrophobic. Benny stopped in front of a door, taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders. Dean followed his cue, standing a step back and letting him take the lead. The door was unmarked and unlocked, but it opened silently on well-oiled hinges. A creaking sound would have been more comforting. The room inside was dimly lit, with strings of small light bulbs strewn across the space. The floor was mostly covered in pillows and blankets, in bright colours and soft-looking fabrics. Dean heard Benny walk forward and say something, but his attention was on the pillows to his right. A woman and a man were curled there, sleeping deeply with faint smiles on their faces. They were holding hands, fingers interlinked and the medical tubes taped to their forearms were tangled. Dean followed them as they snaked towards a small wrought iron table, where they ended up affixed to some glass and metal contraption. There was a spigot at the bottom.

“Cancer”. The voice was low pitched and the speaker had probably meant to be soft spoken. But there were harmonics in the voice, like several voices speaking at once, interwoven. Dean turned with a startled jump, hand on the butt of his gun by reflex. Benny was signalling him to calm down. The other man was looking at him, expressionless. His skin was thin and papery, Dean would have expected liver spots and arthritic joints. But the man stood very straight and swirls of dark, navy blue tattoos covered the skin of his arms, neck and face. They seemed to move when Dean looked away. “It reached her bones and they cannot afford the treatments. He did not want to go on without her.”

“So this is what? Euthanasia light?”

The man shrugged. “She feels no pain. In this way, they will have a lifetime together, grow old. When their death comes, it will be a whisper, not a scream. There are worse fates.” He stepped back and gestured them to unoccupied cushions. “My name is Maziar. Benjamin says he has a favor to ask. So let’s sit and discuss what you need.”

Dean was pretty sure that if his eyebrows rose any higher he was going to sprain something. Of all the currencies traded in the Sprawl, names were the rarest and most valuable. A name, a real name, could link you to police files and fingerprints; amidst all of the old world issues of identity theft and discovery. Nothing really got locked or expunged, from juvenile record to cold cases. It could endanger friends and family by disturbing ghosts of the past. There was power there also, a name was an inherent link to your deepest self, to your spirit or soul. It was no accident that the creature had used Benny’s full first name and given Dean his own. It was a casual display of power and a show of trust rolled into one.

“Yeah, um, he said you could help? I’m Squirrel, by the way.”

“I know. Javier speaks highly of you.” Maziar smiled, and for a moment his eyes looked like they held twin blue flames.

The cushions were low, but sturdy. Dean felt like he was half sitting and half kneeling, uncomfortably exposed and vulnerable. He struggled for a moment to find a way to fold his legs so that he could be stable. Benny started explaining the situation, from the missing children to the files Sam had decrypted. Dean added details once in awhile, but his attention kept slipping back to the sleeping couple. Benny had this anyway. He realized the silence had stretched an unusual length and blinked away, turning back to Benny’s slightly exasperated expression and the Djinn’s unreadable placidity.

“What do they see, in their sleep?” he asked. It wasn’t the question they had expected, or maybe they had asked him something. Dean didn’t know or particularly care.

“An island, near Venice. They walk the Palazzio’s ground and swim in the clear waters. There are doves, snow white and beautiful, that fly across the sky every day at 3h02. The sun is warm, the sand is soft. They have food and entertainment and all of their friends are with them.” Maziar spread his hands with his palms up, as if holding an offering. “It is not a hard Dreamscape to maintain, they want to be there.”

“And you could use the same kind of thing to make the kids wake up?”

“It would be a different Dreamscape. I’m not sure they would believe the paradisiac island setting, but yes, in essence. If what you’ve told me is true, I’d have to unweave whatever was already done.”

“But it would work? They’d be fine?”

“Brother…” Benny tried to interrupt, but Maziar raised a hand to cut him off.

“It might. You have to understand… a few days in this reality is a lifetime in the Dreamscape. There will be untold damage to fix, wounds of the mind to heal. It will be a long and slow process. And you have to agree to the price.”

“How much?” asked Dean.

“A stipend of money, to keep _my_ children fed. The real cost is not there.”

Dean frowned. “Javier and the other kids. You feed on them as well?”

“Of course not. Not unless they ask, and even then very rarely. I keep them safe from magic and other creatures, they protect me from mankind. I assure you it’s fully mutually beneficial. The older ones handle the recruitment, as it is. Of those we take in.” There was a fond smile on his face. It looked strange, like the muscles were unused to the movement.

“What’s your help gonna cost us?” asked Dean.

Maziar and Benny shared a long look and Benny sighed. “The one he helps. They’ll know him, instinctually. Like knowing someone from your childhood. Like you know Moose or Wombat.”

“Ok. So?”

Maziar was the one who answered. “With that kind of comfortable knowledge, they’ll trust me as well. If I ask something of them, they will acquiesce, because it will be natural for them. You have to decide if that is something you can accept as a risk.”

Dean lifted his eyes to the ceiling, hanging low and mottled with shadows. He closed his eyes. “Do you think they’ll be able to come out of it on their own if I say no?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know how the manufactured venom affected them,” said Maziar. “They might wake-up. If they do, any and all conditioning will still be in place. You will have to find out exactly which triggers and beliefs these so called scientists have instilled into their victims.”

Dean closed his eyes. Both choices sucked, but Benny was right. This was the best chance they had.

“Let’s do it. I’ll talk to the others.”

**Now**

There was a two way observation window between the hallway and the rescued kids now, the tinted kind that would look at home in a Lone Star precinct. The armed guards were new as well, holding swords and pistols, their faces covered in elaborate masks. It was all very theatrical. Dean couldn’t really blame them for it either. Between convincing the Oyabun to let a Djinn walk into the building and the aftershock rumbles from the Corporate Court investigation, everyone was on edge.

In the two weeks since the raid on NeuroStar, everyone involved had been holding their breath. It’s not that operations this size were unheard of (there had been larger and fancier ones in the Metroplex), it’s just that they tended to have an equally corporate sponsor. There was unease trickling down, information networks being mined for names. Various “talent acquisition” departments had sat apprehensive with the idea that the pawns they used to play chess against each other had a shred of agency. There had been a dearth of offered jobs, which caused its own issues in the underworld. Without the corps fuelling the underground economy in their covert wars, it was hard to keep up the bribes to get food and water into the Barrens. Skirmishes on the outskirts had been reported, street gangs smelling blood in the water and testing their luck.

Dean leaned against the window, watching Maziar as he sat by Ben, unmoving and smiling. There was a blue glow around his fingers where they rested on Ben’s forehead, something that made Dean’s trigger finger itch. His instincts didn’t care that he’d consented to this, had advocated for it. He kept seeing his kid ( _his_ despite what Lisa might say) helpless next to something he’d kill on principle any other day… it made him uneasy. Maybe the guards were a good idea, to keep him out as much as to ensure nothing happened to the patients.

The soft chime of the elevator caught his attention. He turned towards the sound, feeling the cold unyielding glass against his cheek. Bobby was headed his way, hair clean and smoothed back, his beard trimmed and well kept. He’d oiled the hinges of the wheelchair, it glided as much as it rolled, silent and smooth. Bobby was talking with someone, an older man with curved shoulders and wrinkles that cascaded from his brow and down his neck. He was wearing a hunter green, silken kimono and Dean straightened on instinct. If there was one thing John Winchester had drilled into his boys it was to have proper posture when a commanding officer was walking your way. Well, it was one thing he had drilled into them that was both not harmful and still obeyed.

Bobby’s voice sounded at ease around the Japanese words, gruff and grounded without being threatening or condescending. Dean figured he’d have to learn the language at some point. Or maybe Sam could translate for him. He knew enough about the horrors of auto-translation programs to avoid them. No one needed another incident involving calling someone’s mother a prize-winning breeding mare. The older man’s answer was softer, his voice paper thin, almost inaudible. Dean stepped away as they neared the observation window, dropping a hand on the back of Bobby’s chair by habit. He tried to squash the surge of guilt. The extra money Ellen had promised had been rolled into a medical fund as planned, just not for Bobby. His hand was promptly slapped away by the small but determined shadow Bobby had acquired.

Krissy Chambers’ dad had been a runner, if not a very good one, but they’d been able to track down what was left of him. It wasn’t clear if his death was linked to her abduction. She’d been among the first Maziar had been able to wake up, a firecracker of will and spite, from what the Djinn had said. Bobby had taken her under his protection, making Dean both relieved and somehow jealous. He was glad Bobby would have someone with him when he was out and Sam was jacked in. But the hurt kid part of himself didn’t want to have to share his almost father with anyone.

“The young man, he will be out before the end of the week,” said the older Japanese man, in English as an obvious courtesy for Dean.

“His mother will be relieved,” Dean answered with an awkward bow.

“He is lucky. He has a home waiting for his return. They do not all share this luck.” The old man turned to look at Dean, sunken eyes unreadable. “I wonder if it is kindness, to wake them up only to send them back into the cold.”

Dean thought back to the couple on the cushions, to the pinprick pupils lost in Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes. “I think… I think that is for them to say.”

“Perhaps.” The man turned back towards the window and said something in Japanese, either to the room, or the guards, or the universe. It wasn’t clear which.

“How ‘bout you take Krissy home, boy? I’ll join ya for dinner.” Bobby reached for Dean’s elbow. His grip was firm and there was a tilt to his eyebrows that asked not to be questioned. Dean nodded, a small movement, something that might be missed by someone who did not know him well.

“Sure. Come on, kid.”

Krissy followed Dean as he stepped away silently, walking a step behind him and with her back very straight. She did not speak much, or at all, since she had woken up. She sat as stiffly in the car, and Dean turned up the music just to cover the silence. It was late in the day but maybe an hour or two before dusk. The cloud cover had broken up, spread like smears the colour of lead over a strangely desaturated sky. It made everything look like an old painting, left too long in an abandoned storefront, the pigments leached away. When they got out of the car at Bobby’s house, Krissy stood, hand still on the Impala’s door, staring at the sky.

“Everything ok, kid?”

She shook her head. “It was like this, in the dream. The nice one, when I was waking up.”

Dean didn‘t say anything. It felt like hearing a confession or reading someone’s diary. He shuffled a bit, crunching gravel underfoot, to let her know he was still there.

“I wanted to wake up so badly, I wanted to win. To live. And now I don’t know why,” She turned to look at him, fierce despite being so much smaller. “And I’m not a kid.” She closed the door, harder than necessary, making the frame rattle. “In the dreams, the bad ones that were always wrong… I was a mother. I was a wife. I saw my children die. Everybody always died. I could not save them, no matter how hard I fought. I think… I think they wanted us to stop fighting… Sometimes, I wanted to.” She stopped talking, as suddenly as she had started and walked to the house, disappearing inside.

“ _I’ve got news that should cheer you up._ ” Sam’s voice crackled over the coms. Dean wondered how long he’d been listening.

He went straight upstairs, letting Krissy have rein of the kitchen. She had firmly claimed the domesticity of it in the first day Bobby has brought her home. Sam was jacked in, curled unto his right side on the rank sheets of his too small bed. Kid needed to learn about laundry schedules.

“So what’s the good news?”

An icon chimed and bounced on his comlink. Dean waved it open and smiled as he watched the security footage. The editing was choppy as the angles changed, but it was still a balm over many aches.

“ _Paris, from this morning_ ,” Sam said. “ _You were right, he headed home to London, but has been having issues_.”

Ketch looked thinner in the footage, a nasty gash over the left eyebrow made Dean wonder about his eye. He was walking with an obvious limp and holding his ribs. He’d slipped the LoneStar holding cell nearly as soon as they’d put him in it. No one (who was worth their salt anyway) had expected anything else. That’s why Balthazar had made sure the paydata recovered from NeuroStar had been vastly distributed in the shadowy corners of the Matrix. Each copy of the file, each download, included Ketch’s picture and the exact role he had played in the targeting of the Seattle Sprawl’s kids. Runners were not compassionate, but honor was highly regarded, and reputation meant everything. There would be no one who would work with him, not willingly, unless they wanted to see their own name tarnished. Dean smiled. It did make him feel better, like karmic retribution.

“That’s great, Sammy.” He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Sam as the mattress settled. “Listen, man, we need to talk…”

“ _Sure? Give me a moment and I’ll come up._ ”

“Nah, you’re comfy, you can stay there, it’s fine.” Dean picked at the ashes on his pants, shoulders curled a bit. He hoped it would be easier if Sam wasn’t looking at him. It would take the puppy dog eyes out of the equation at the very least.

“ _Dean... Dean, what’s wrong?_ ” Sam’s persona took over Dean’s comlink, hovering in the low-res augmented reality output. His wings were flared out, but the smoke coils of his body curled tightly with nervousness. The eyes were the same, wide open and worried. So much for that plan.

“I’m worried.” Dean sighed. Chick flick moments were better when a team of writers came up with them.

“ _About the kids?_ ”

“Yes, but mostly about you. You gotta cut the junk, Sammy. For real this time.”

“ _I’ve got a handle on it_.” The digital Ifrit version of Sam crossed his arms, jaw working in defiance.

“I want to believe that. I really do. It’s what you said before, until you drove yourself over the line with an overdose.”

 _“I got out of it fine. A little bed rest, and now I know where the limit is._ ” He wrapped his wings around himself. “ _I really don’t want a second near-death experience like that._ ”

“You only got out of it because Cas was there and he pulled your ass out of the fire. He’s not always around, we can’t depend on that Sam.”

“ _Oh, so you guys aren’t back together?_ ”

“Not the point.” He rubbed at his neck, fingers itching to brush back Sam’s hair like he did when he was a kid. They were getting too old for it. Maybe he did need to give his brother more space, but the very thought was terrifying.

“ _Listen, I get it. I’m careful. If it makes you feel better I —_ ” Sam was interrupted by the ringing of an incoming call, green pulsing light fighting for attention on Dean’s com. “ _You better get that_.”

Dean blinked and the persona was gone, leaving only the unknown caller clambering for attention. “Listening,” he said, answering the call.

“ _Good evening. Sorry for the imposition_.” The voice was male, older, the accent polished in the way that years of higher education polished a person, removing asperities of personality and other unseemly things. “Y _our number was passed down to me by a common acquaintance. It is my understanding that you might be available for independent contracting?_ ”

Dean sat straighter, looking at the ragged sheets on Sam’s bed and the overcrowded house, visualizing the pantry downstairs and Bobby, still in his chair. He had work to do.

“Where can we meet Mr. Jay?”

 

##END##


End file.
